


The Burning Ones

by Quailpower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 12, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Headcanon, Angel Mojo, Angel True Forms, Angel Wings, Bunker, Castiel & Claire Novak Friendship, Castiel is one of Mary's boys, Charlie Lives, Charlie Ships It, Destiel - Freeform, Domestic Winchesters, Enochian, Eventual Smut, Family, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mojo-related, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Slow Burn, True Forms, Winchester Feels, Wing Kink, Winged Castiel, Wingfic, angel lore, eventual destiel, the slowest burn to ever burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2018-12-01 02:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 83,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11476377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quailpower/pseuds/Quailpower
Summary: After nearly losing Castiel to the Lance of Michael, the Winchesters are faced with the possibility that the angel has brought himself to the brink of destruction again. To save himself he has to once again put the brothers in danger, and try to stay alive long enough to deal with Kelly Kline's baby.Heavy angel headcanon and lots of friendship building and character growth. Trueform Cas will make an appearance in later chapters.Domestic Bunker is LIFEDivergent from Season 12 Episode 12 (Stuck in the middle with you). Charlie lives!





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to use my angel headcannon, drop me a PM or comment and I'll send you my excessively detailed cheat sheet (embarrassing illustrations included). It covers everything from celestial behaviour, culture, magic and form.
> 
> Add me on any platform, I do a lot of waiting around for lab work so I'm always available for some banter.
> 
> [ Quailpower on Tumblr ](https://quailpower.tumblr.com/) or on Discord @Quailpower#2270
> 
>  
> 
> Special thanks to my Beta [ Lexifer ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexifer/pseuds/Lexifer)

Dean Winchester stretched leisurely against the workbench, savouring the series of cracks that rose from his back. He drank deeply from a lukewarm bottle and ran his fingers over the variously sized socket bits. A small, rare, smile pulled at his mouth. He enjoyed the feel of the smooth metal against the rough edge of his calloused fingers. He selected one, slotting it into a socket, before returning to the stripped shell of the 52’ Ford Crestline. He lowered himself onto the creeper trolley, ignoring the arthritic creak from his knees.

 

Underneath the car, he had lost track of time. His shirt was soaked with sweat and grease but he felt more relaxed than he had been in months. It should come as no surprise then, that the loud bang of the garage door being thrown open would interrupt his meditative restoration. He jumped at the sound, smashing his head against the sump plug.

 

“FUCK!”

 

“Dean?! Dean where are you?” Sam shouted. Heavy footsteps echoed through the garage before coming to a halt beside the Crestline. “Dean? You alright?” 

 

The elder hunter groaned and muttered a string of curses. Sam grabbed his leg and yanked him out from under the car. Dean stared up at his brother blearily, his cursing now including something about squeaky creeper wheels. Sam threw a relatively clean rag down at his brother’s chest. Dean held it to his bleeding forehead.

 

“S’goin on?”

 

“Jody just called. It’s Claire, she’s gone AWOL. She was on a hunt near Fort Peck and didn't check in. Jody can't get hold of her or the other two hunters she's with.” Sam almost winced as he saw the thin veil of contentment that his brother had worn these last weeks, shatter. 

 

Dean yanked himself upright and threw the socket to the floor with a curse. He stomped into the main building with Sam following behind. He threw himself into one of the library chairs, then awkwardly wrangled his phone out of the stiff denim of his jeans.

 

“I'm gonna make some phone calls, you can get on the traffic cams and see if we can trace her phone,” Dean said gravely, as he palmed through the notes Sam had taken from his phone call with Jody.

 

Time they didn't have ticked away with little success. Sam was still waiting on hold to Verizon, hoping to get a location for Claire's phone. Dean, having exhausted his own enquiries was field stripping his gun. They both tensed at the series of metallic clangs that indicated the front door was being opened. Sam grabbed his gun and Dean retrieved the emergency pistol holstered under the table. They lowered, but didn't put down their weapons when they heard a familiar voice call their names. 

 

Castiel sprinted across the landing and down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. He skidded to a halt against the table. He came to rest with his hands splayed on the table and seemed to be out of breath. Dean rose slightly from his chair and gripped the angel’s shoulder. His friend was pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He seemed to be shivering slightly.

 

“Cas, what's wrong?”

 

“It's Claire -”

 

“Yeah we know, Jody called. We have an idea where she is, just waiting on details before we ship out.” His voice was flat with forced calm. He gave Cas’ shoulder a squeeze and pushed him towards a chair. “You want some coffee? Or .... something stronger?” Dean ducked his head, deflecting the glare Sam was boring into him. Apparently encouraging the angel to take up day drinking with him was not acceptable.

 

“‘Cause no offense, you look like shit.” He slapped the angel roughly on the shoulder again as he wandered towards the kitchen. Cas sat stiffly in the chair, seeming to be taking a moment to compose himself; eyes closed.

 

“Hang on, how do you know about Claire? Jody only called us thirty minutes ago,” asked Sam, tilting the phone away from his ear slightly.

 

“She's been praying.” 

 

Dean stopped dead in the doorway, a chill running down his spine. 

 

“I don't think she's hurt, but she's scared. She's so scared. And she's begging. She's begging me to answer her prayer. She doesn't think I will…” his voice was quiet, rough with emotion. 

 

Sam stood abruptly, his chair screeching across the floor. “We can get the specifics on route, it's a 5 hour drive minimum.” He started bundling their laptops and chargers in a bag. He hurried around calling out seemingly random items and directions, returning periodically to the table with them.

 

In contrast to Sam’s frantic energy, Dean had stilled. He stood braced against the doorframe, with a hand over his face. After a few moments his hand dropped from the wood and he swore. He disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a travel mug and a cool box. He pressed the cup into Cas’ hand then set to work reassembling his gun. He remained standing next to Castiel, sneaking glances at his friend while he assembled his weapon from muscle memory alone. He felt a deep, nauseating worry settle in his gut. At first he attributed this to the thought of Claire’s frantic prayers, but the more he looked at Cas, the feeling only got worse. Dean had seen the range of Cas from would-be-godhood all the way down to broken human; he had rarely seen Cas look as ill as he looked now. And when he did, it had never ended well. He saw Cas’ face; pale and etched in pain, dying from the lance of Michael. His stomach heaved and he dropped the clip he was holding. Sam had disappeared down the hallway, and the low rumble of his monologue could occasionally be heard.

 

“Cas are you okay?” Dean kept his eyes resolutely on his gun, inspecting it. He didn’t want to see the angel lie to him again. He was so prepared for it. Already letting the ache in his chest take over him that he almost didn't hear the quiet, “No.” He looked down but Cas had already closed his eyes again. He leaned back in the chair and ran his fingers through his dark hair with a weary sigh.

 

“I'm not.” He took a small sip from the travel mug, eyes still closed. “Okay, I mean. I am definitely not okay. If I look even half as bad as I feel, that is an achievement. But Claire comes first. My problems can wait.” His eyes opened and he fixed on the hunter, silently indicating with the set of his jaw that this was not up for discussion. 

 

Sam jogged back into the room, phone still pressed to his ear and laden with bags. He groaned.

 

“Seriously? Dean, did you get anything I asked for?” He threw the heaviest bag at his brother’s chest. “If you two want to have a staring contest, do it in the car,” he spat. 

 

In less than ten minutes Sam was locking the bunker door behind them. The surly looks he aimed at his brother were only made worse by an unhelpful phone agent. He was speaking quietly, with an almost malicious politeness; bitchface activated. Dean finished carefully arranging items in the trunk and slid into the driver's seat. He was surprised to note Cas had taken the passenger seat and was slumped against the door, as if he was already asleep. He turned as Sam folded himself into the back seat and flicked his eyes from Cas to Sam, and back. Sam returned his stare. The silent Winchester language of gestures said plainly; I’m worried about Cas.

 

The stereo blasted Journey at an almost tolerable volume. Sam was still on the phone and seemed to be on hold, again. He was muttering under his breath. The tinny sound of elevator music could be heard from the phone. After several long minutes Dean turned down the radio and jabbed at Cas’ leg.

 

“So how’d you get to the bunker so fast? I didn't think that pimpmobile of yours did over thirty,” Dean smirked, hoping to provoke something other than one word answers from the angel. 

 

Cas made a small snorting noise, that might have been a laugh. “I was already on my way here. I wanted to talk to you and Sam about something.” 

 

The brothers waited expectantly, but Castiel merely leaned his head against the window and stared at the blurry landscape.

 

“Great, more cryptic angel bullshit,” Dean snapped. Cas blinked slowly. Possibly counting to ten, or whatever angels did to keep calm.

 

“It’s not cryptic or bullshit. It’s just not important right now.” The angel pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

 

“Yeah, yeah. No one’s arguing that Claire is priority number one right now. But you could at least keep us in the loop. No more secrets, Cas.” 

 

When the angel continued to stare at the landscape, Dean thumped the steering wheel. The muscles in jaw flexed as he concentrated his rage on any unlucky driver that passed near him. He fumed silently and spent several miles attempting to commit vehicular manslaughter before he felt the anger begin to fade. 

 

Sam had ended his phone call, but said nothing. Experience told him to duck and roll when Cas and Dean argued. In an unprecedented move, Castiel gave up before they had even worked up to the sarcasm and shouting stage. He sighed.

 

“I’m burning out.” Cas turned to face them both, face impassive.

 

“Uh, that sounds ominous,” Sam quipped nervously.

 

“It's fine. Really. I just need some rest and some help with a . . . ritual.”

 

“What ritual?” Sam leaned forward so his head was level with theirs. Curiosity piqued.

 

“Enochian magic.”

 

“I didn't realise angel's used magic.”

 

“You've seen me use sigils and tracking spells before, Sam,” Cas said in a slightly accusatory tone.

 

“Yeah, I guess. I just never really thought about what kind of spellwork it was.”

 

“It’s not the same as mortal magic, like witches and demons use. We channel celestial energy, which no other creature can do. Angels guard the knowledge jealously. Mostly because it is part of our very being, it is . . . intimate. But fear is the main motivation. Anyone wanting to manipulate celestial power would need to trick or trap an Angel to do so.” He shifted restlessly in his seat.

 

“So, this Enochian magic will stop you ‘burning out’?” Dean asked briskly, noting that Cas was avoiding his eyes.

 

“Yes.”

 

“And what-”

 

“Dean I'm exhausted, I promise I'll answer any question you have, once we get back.” He rubbed his hand over his face, like the elder hunter often did. “But right now I need to rest.” 

 

Dean looked mutinous. Cas was either too tired to notice the angry side-eye that he was receiving, or was pretending not to.

 

“Here Cas,” said Sam softly. He pressed one of the folded blankets to the angel’s shoulder, as a pillow. Cas yawned a thank you, and gave him a small smile. 

 

When he was sure Castiel was asleep and Sam distracted with his phone, Dean watched the angel out of the corner of his eye. He assessed the pale, pinched features of his friend and let the familiar self loathing wash over him. Castiel was sick, and all he had done was bitch and snipe at him.

 

Castiel didn't look any better after a fitful sleep in the Impala. And his mood definitely hadn't improved. He was agitated and snappy. Sam had tried to ask more questions about angelic lore and had been ignored. When Sam disappeared into a fuel station - cowed after a particularly vitriolic remark from the angel - Dean turned to him and raised his eyebrows. This was met with a scowl and stony silence. He found himself taking a deep breath and reminding himself not to flip out at the angel, again. He took a deep breath, and another, and one more for good luck.

 

“Cas-”

 

“She's praying,” Cas said shortly, through clenched teeth. For a moment his eyes sparked with grace. He saw the look of concern on Dean’s face and looked down at his hands. He slowly clenched and unclenched them as if his joints pained him.

 

“She's gonna be fine Cas. She's a smart girl and the cavalry is already on the way.” Dean leaned over, and placed his hand over Cas’ and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Jeez, man you're on fire.” His other hand shot to the angel’s forehead; the back of his hand pressed against the warm flesh. Dean pulled both of his hands away, looking sheepish.

 

“Sorry.” He surveyed his friend for a moment. “Seriously though, you weren't joking when you said ‘Burning Out’ were you?”

 

“I believe my core temperature at the moment is around 104°,” Cas said flatly, as if this was of no consequence to him.

 

“Cas, that sort of temperature puts people in the hospital. Will you. . . Will your vessel be okay with a temperature like that? I mean your mojo isn’t exactly at its best.” His hand itched to press against the angel’s forehead again. Dean was now scrutinising his friend intensely, looking for some sign of decline.

 

“It is . . . uncomfortable. To say the least. It will pass. It comes in waves.” 

 

Dean leaned over the back of his chair, scrabbling for the cool box. Raising his hand triumphantly, he held up a bag of ice. He grabbed the corner of the blanket that had fallen on the seat between himself and Castiel; and wrapped it around the ice. He gestured silently for Cas to lean forward and pressed the makeshift ice pack to the angel’s neck. Cas made a small sound of contentment as he adjusted the ice. Dean smiled.

 

“Thank you, Dean.”

 

The door clicked and Sam slid into the back seat. He briefly explained what he had learned from casually questioning the store clerk. There were several abandoned farm buildings in the area Claire’s phone had pinged off cell towers. He eyed Castiel, wondering if another outburst was on the cards. But he seemed to have lapsed back into contemplative silence.

 

They spent several hours stalking down country roads, Baby’s engine roaring conspicuously. It was a necessary evil as there were several miles between the buildings. But driving in blind had all three hunters on edge. Dean and Sam had both retrieved machetes from the trunk earlier. After a while Castiel hissed in pain and massaged his temple, scowling. When Dean or Sam tried to question him, he shushed them with a flick of his hand. He broke the silence, making them jump.

 

“I’m trying to pinpoint Claire’s location using her prayer.” He continued to massage his temple and closed his eyes, concentrating deeply.

 

“That’s a thing?”

 

“Yes, Dean. Now please be quiet,” he hissed through his teeth.

 

They continued to roll up and down the dirt roads, but Cas gave no indication that he was any closer to locating Claire. The brothers eyed the buildings they passed, looking for signs of life or light as dusk fell. They picked up speed to pass a seemingly empty barn. Sam was leaning between the seats again with a map open on his phone.

 

Cas’ eyes snapped open and his hand flew to the door. Before Sam and Dean knew what was going on, the door was open and Castiel had ejected himself from the car. He did a barrel roll across a grass verge, twisting to his feet in one fluid motion and took off running. The car continued on for several seconds, as the brothers gaped at the open door and quickly disappearing figure of the angel.

 

“Did he just-?”

 

“What the fuck?” they chorused.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam skidded on patch of damp grass, arms flailing madly to try and remain upright. He saw a flash of light in overgrown trees and lean-tos at the rear of the building. Someone was getting their smite on.

 

He checked over his shoulder to see that Dean was still behind him, several paces behind now thanks to Sam’s longer gait. He aimed between where he had seen the flash and the door of the barn, hoping Cas was working clockwise. He saw a shadow detach from the others and mentally fist bumped himself. Castiel paid him no heed, and definitely wasn't expecting a flying tackle from Sam at full gallop. They slid several feet across the ground in the thickety underbrush, limbs flying. A tree root temporarily winded the Winchester, allowing Cas to twist almost to his feet. He was brought back down as a hand yanked his ankle. The scuffling intensified and they had slid down a small embankment as Dean approached. He managed to slow down in time on the uneven ground, but still ended up flat on his back when he tried to disentangle the angel and his brother and was rewarded by having his legs kicked from under him. After more scrabbling Dean managed to get a firm hold of Cas’ trenchcoat and Sam was sat across his legs.

 

“What. The. Fuck. Cas.” His hands fisted in the lapels, lifting the angel slightly “You could have asked us to stop. Not just jump out of a moving car!” 

 

Sam huffed his agreement, still out of breath. Castiel didn't answer him. Dean made a small sound of disgust and righted himself. He pulled Sam to his feet, then Cas. They were all covered in leaf litter and mud.

 

“So I'm assuming we didn't just do a cross country run for nothing. Claire's inside?” Sam asked in a hoarse whisper, brushing leaves from his hair. 

 

Cas didn't answer. He was staring in the middle distance, eyes unfocused as if listening intensely to something. Dean and Sam shared a concerned look. Sam snapped his fingers in front of the angel. Nothing. Dean shook him slightly and he jerked back to the present.

 

“Yes, her and the other hunters, I think.”

 

“You think?!” Sam gasped, tone scandalized.

 

“It's an expression, Sam. She is in there. And several vampires too.”

 

“Okay, Sam, you go round the back, stop any escapees. Me and Cas -” a susurrous voice called from within the barn.

 

“Gentlemen, are you going to stay out there all night?” 

 

They froze. Castiel strode towards the door without missing a heartbeat. The brothers quickly joined him, Dean muttering damnations under his breath.

 

They scanned the dimly lit barn for the hunters, and found them. The two girls and their male counterpart were sat on the dusty floor, tied to some old machinery. They were each sporting several bruises and contusions on their faces, but Claire more so than the other two.

 

Stood nonchalantly beside them was a grinning man, pale haired and lithe. He spread his arms in a gesture of welcome, smiling at his companions lounging around the barn. 

 

Dean counted them. Damn. Eleven, not counting mister smarm.

 

“I was excited to have three dinner guests, but six? What are the chances!” His companions chortled obediently. “Would it be greedy of me to ask if you have any other friends that would like to join us?”

 

Castiel took a step forward, his deep voice booming across the barn.

 

“Let them go and I am prepared to show mercy.” 

 

The laughing intensified. “Oooooh mercy! Did you hear that, the scary hunters want to let us go!” Their leader flashed his teeth in a rictus grin, and pantomimed shaking in fear.

 

“I did not say I would let you go. I said I will be merciful. I will make sure your death is quick and painless.” His eyes slid over Claire, rage contorting his usually placid features. “Even that is more than I am inclined to give.” There was a subtle change in the atmosphere, a drop in pressure and a slight smell of ozone. 

 

The vampire smiled even wider at Cas, and took a step towards Claire. “Oh, is this one yours?” He plucked at her blonde curls, twirling one between his fingers. She flinched.

 

A small voice at the back of Dean's mind was screaming at him. It had kept him alive in dangerous situations before so he was inclined to listen. Time slowed. Thunder rumbled and the lights flickered. He knew there wasn't a cloud in the sky today, and certainly no thunder. He stared at Castiel, and there seemed to be a faint glow under his skin, growing brighter. He couldn't stop thinking of Pamela Barnes all of a sudden. He locked eyes with the young hunters.

 

“Close your eyes!” He dived at Sam, whose arm had snapped up to shield his eyes without question. They lay sprawled on the dusty floor. The room filled with light, like a supernova. It shone through their eyelids, too bright to even see the veins in them. For a moment it seemed that all the oxygen had left the barn. The brothers gasped for breath against the dirt. Then the screaming started.

 

Air rushed back into their lungs in a burst. The light was dimming now, and Dean risked peeking over his arm. Cas was unmoved. The youngsters had their heads pressed into their knees, eyes screwed tightly shut, and around the barn there were columns of fire. The screaming continued. The columns of blue-white flame were thrashing around madly. Oh fuck. He watched as the columns of flame - which he now realized were in fact burning vampires - slowly extinguished into piles of ash. The last one crumbled and the barn now seemed stiflingly dark without the vampire lanterns.

 

He kicked at Sam's leg, indicating it was time to get up. He strode towards the hunters, stopping briefly at Cas’ side. The angel was now folded in half, arms braced on his knees. Internally Dean was freaking out. Cas incinerating a room full of vampires without laying a finger on them was definitely not normal, even for them. But one look at the terrified faces of the young hunters told him to play it like this was just another Thursday.

 

“Y’alright man?” He slapped the angel’s shoulder jovially, and got a mumbled reply that sounded suspiciously like ‘mmm throw up’. 

 

Sam, who was also wondering what the fuck just happened, took one look at Dean and realised what play he was pulling. Their eyes met and they shared a moment of mutual internal screaming.

 

Dean jogged over to Claire, and Sam to the other female hunter, Delilah, feeling chivalrous. They both looked completely shell shocked. Dean felt Claire flop against him when he cut her arms free. She was shaking. He patted her back and tried to mutter some soothing words.

 

Claire wasn't listening to him, or to Delilah who was slightly hysterical. Her eyes were fixed on Castiel, who was now upright again and wearing a very good impression of someone trying not to be dead. He cleared his throat, looking nervous under Claire's stare.

 

“Claire. . . I'm sorry if I frightened you.” He wasn't sure whether he was apologising for the light show, for taking so long to get there, or for letting her believe he wouldn't answer her prayers. Or all of the above. 

 

It seemed to be the right thing to say. She shakily got to her feet and threw herself against his familiar shape. Cas hesitated for a moment, then wrapped his arms around her in crushing hug. He tucked her head under his chin and smoothed her curls softly as her small frame shook with silent sobs. Sam and Dean turned away and busied themselves with the other two hunters. It seemed too raw, too private for them to intrude on. Eventually Claire stopped shaking, and she could be seen hastily wiping at her face. Castiel closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her crown, healing her and taking the chill from her limbs. She pulled away, looking embarrassed. And though she fixed the angel with a blazing look that challenged him to ever mention this again, her hand remained holding the inner sleeve of his coat.

 

The gasps of the male hunter, Christian, upon seeing Claire's miraculously healed face was enough to tell the Winchesters it was safe to turn around. Sam was using his best ‘talking to victims’ voice to try and keep the two of them calm. They were twitchy, eyes darting from Claire to Cas, and back to the brothers. To be fair to them, Cas’ display had unnerved the brothers too. The angel’s ominous words about burning out seemed to lay heavy in the air. Dean surveyed his friend, saw his best everything-is-fine face and was instantly enraged. His earlier embargo on flipping out and keeping up appearances in front of the children went out the window.

 

“So, Cas. A little warning would be nice next time you decide to go nuclear,” he spat, and kicked at the pile of ash that had previously been a vampire. “Feel like someone shoved a flash grenade up my ass. Back of my eyeballs are still burning,” he muttered, savaging the sooty pile with his heel. 

 

Cas had the sense to look ashamed and assumed the face Sam described as ‘kicked puppy’, but which Cas himself thought of as his ‘make Dean stop shouting’ face.

 

“Apologies; Dean, Sam,” he tilted his head and squinted at the young hunters, “Delilah and Christian. I should not have done that. It was stupid and very dangerous. You could easily have been hurt had Dean not realised and warned you . . . I'm afraid I was very distressed when I heard Claire's prayers. And when I saw that he had hurt you,” his eyes now fixed on Claire, “I was very angry. I let my emotions get the better of me.” 

 

Still hidden from the others view, the hand gripping his coat gave a small squeeze. Dean cleared his throat. He had stopped molesting the vampire remains. Both Cas and Sam risked a look at the elder Winchester. The hard lines of anger in his face had softened somewhat.

 

“Yeah okay, mama bear, we get it. Don't fuck with your cubs.”

 

“If I'm responsible at all for ‘mothering’ anyone it would definitely be you two.” Cas’ tone was flat but the edges of his mouth were threatening a smile. He could see Claire smirking in his peripheral vision. Dean snorted and was about to launch into another round of ribbing but Sam held up his arms in ceasefire.

 

“Come on, let's get wrapped up here. I’m sure everyone wants to get home.” Sam swooped down to collect their machetes where they had fallen. “You got enough juice left to heal these guys up Cas?”

 

“No. Please, no!” Delilah all but shrieked. She took several steps backwards, away from them. 

 

Dean and Sam rolled their eyes. 

 

Cas’ face fell. He looked at the scared faces of the younger hunters and seemed positively mournful. He held out his arm like one would do approaching a frightful animal and used his power to project feelings of calm.

 

“It’s alright, I understand our introduction was frightening-”

 

“Stop it! Stop whatever messed up voodoo you’re using!” 

 

He paused, and withdrew. Letting the calm feelings soak back towards him. She jumped at the sudden absence of feeling, not expecting him to obey.

 

“Listen, sweetheart. He’s an angel. Literally, wings, halo, harp. Just let him patch you up and we can get going.”

 

“I wish you would stop saying that Dean, I don't have a harp.” 

 

Deans face twisted as he tried and failed to restrain a guffaw at Cas’ look of complete seriousness.

 

“Angels aren't real,” said Christian, with little conviction.

 

“And yet here we are,” said Dean, making little ‘Tah-Dah!’ gestures towards Cas. They seemed to be at a stalemate. 

 

Sam mentally counted to ten, and was prepared to just drop the hunters at the nearest Urgent Care and have done with it.

 

“He’s Family.” Claire's soft voice carried across the barn. 

 

Castiel looked at her, surprised. She gave him a self conscious smile.

 

“Yes, in strange and slightly disturbing way,” he said, in disbelief.

 

“Buddy, that’s just you, strange and slightly disturbing,” quipped Dean, secretly pleased that Claire appeared to be offering an olive branch. 

 

Cas’ chuckle was deep, infectious and unexpected. He took a deep breath to collect himself and flashed his gaze from Delilah to Claire, appearing to be considering something deeply.

 

“Do you trust Claire?” 

 

The hunters nodded, eyeing him with suspicion. 

 

“And you would trust her, to let no harm come to you. If she could heal your wounds?” 

They considered this for a while before Christian nodded hesitantly. Unsure what this might entail.

 

“Castiel I can’t-”

 

“You can. You were my vessel once. You are a conduit of power, Claire, there is great strength in your blood.” Cas’ voice was soft and low, for her alone. He brushed a stray curl from her face. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to do this if you don't want to. I will hold your hand, and my power will flow into them. All you need to do is touch them. Nothing more.” 

 

She nodded once and held her hand out expectantly. He took it, cupped between his palms, and smiled encouragingly.

 

“Great, let's make with the laying-on-of-the-hands and shoot, I’m starving.” Dean clapped his hands together and grinned, pointedly ignoring Sam’s sour face. 

 

Cas took a few steps backwards so their arms were fully extended and he could let the hunters come closer to Claire while giving him a wide berth. He gestured with a flick of his head for Christian to step forward. The red-haired man edged closer, holding his arm tight to his chest awkwardly. Claire stretched out her arm and touched two fingers to his head, as she had seen Cas do.

 

“Close your eyes,” he said softly. Light spilled from his clasped hands. “Breathe deeply. You can feel it? Good. Now let it go.” 

 

Her eyes fluttered open and a weak blue glow sparkled in her eyes. She gasped as she saw the flesh knit together and bruises fade. Castiel nodded and she let her hand drop back to her side. Christian was surveying his previously broken arm, twisting it this way and that, then touching at his face. He turned and smiled at Delilah.

 

“That. Was. Awesome.” He looked slightly embarrassed. “Thanks, guys.” 

 

Cas made a small dismissive gesture, indicating that it really was no trouble. When Delilah refused to step forward, Christian grabbed her shoulders and steered her into position. Her eyes were rolling madly, seeking escape. The young man realized she was a flight risk, as he kept his hands clamped down on her shoulder, holding her still. She flinched as Claire extended her hand, but couldn't twist away. With no instruction this time, Claire closed her eyes and the abrasions along Delilah’s face melted away. Her hand dropped to her knee, where the pain of a severe sprain had vanished. Claire withdrew her hand and stepped back for good measure. Delilah still eyed the angel nervously, and only muttered a thanks when Christian jostled her shoulder. 

 

Dean clapped loudly again, making everyone jump. “Okay, Sam and I will do a lap, make sure there’s no one else here. Cas, if you could take the ladies to the car.” He threw the angel the keys and waggled his eyebrows at the young man, who scoffed and rolled his eyes.

 

Castiel was leaning against the side of the Impala, listening attentively to Claire and Christian, who seemed to have warmed to him. He took a deep lungful of air. He was definitely not going to throw up. Angels do not upchuck in front of impressionable teenagers. The chill air was a comfort at least. He leaned down to the open window and smiled at the girl in front of him. She tried to appear all hard edges, faintly and world wise. And she was. His actions had made sure her soul had been forged and quenched in sadness and suffering. Enough that would have crushed another, or twisted them with bitterness and made cold. She reminded him of Dean.

 

“I have something for you.” He reached into his inner pocket and placed a single, soft, silver feather into her hand. It was around six inches long, and shimmered, opalescent as she twirled it in her hand. “It’s one of mine. Keep it near you. You can feel the power in it? If you are hurt, it will heal you. I’m going to be out of commission for a while. I need time to heal-”

 

“You’re hurt?” She eyed him critically, looking for some sign of injury.

 

“Yes and no. I’m going to be fine. I just need some ‘downtime’ as Sam says.” He coughed and absently ran his finger along the spine of the feather cupped in her hand. When he spoke his voice was hoarse with emotion. “I won't have any of my powers, and I might not be able to get to you if you need me. I need to know that if you do get hurt, or . . . die. That this will save you. So you need to promise me. Promise me that you will always keep this with you. And that no matter what, if you need me. Pray. I will never ignore your prayers again.”

 

“I promise,” she breathed. 

 

He sagged against the car, looking like a man spared from the gallows at the last minute. He tousled her hair softly and stood up, resuming his earlier position, his chin propped up on folded arms on the Impala roof. He felt the soft vibration of prayer rustle through his feathers, shivering up to the base of his skull. Thank you Castiel. He buried his face in his arms to muffle the sob that escaped him. Warriors of God definitely don't cry for no apparent reason, or if they do, they do it where no one can see them. After taking a few huffing breaths through his sleeve Cas assessed himself critically, noting that the lack of control of his powers, emotions, and vessel all seemed to be accelerating. Perhaps he had left it too late. . .

 

Dean bellowing his name and the sound of running feet had him upright and sprinting before his mind even registered it. The elder hunter nearly collided with the angel as he tore around the corner of the barn.

 

“We’ve got survivors. Six. They’re in bad shape. I don’t think we can move them.” He grabbed the angel’s shoulder. “I know you’re probably running on fumes. Tell it to me straight. Can you do this? Without killing yourself.”

 

“Power isn’t the issue. Control is.” 

 

His eyes flashed with grace and Dean raised his eyebrows. The worry in his chest was making it difficult to breathe now. He would have preferred if Cas had simply passed out, recharging. That would have registered somewhere on his dubious scale of normal. Cas turned as Claire approached, the younger hunters having jumped out of the car as soon as they heard Dean yell.

 

“With Claire’s help, I can. Understand that this will be harder than before. As I grow tired you will need to pull the power from me. Rather than just letting it flow through you. It may hurt me, but it will not harm me. Think carefully.”

 

“If I can help. I want to try.” Her face was set firm, the softness he had seen as she huddled against him, hidden again. 

 

They followed Dean in silence. Sam was waiting outside a small outbuilding. He looked nauseous. He tried to put his large frame between Claire and the door, wanting to shield her from whatever was waiting inside, but she pushed past him. She almost wished she had stayed outside when she saw the pathetic, barely human shapes confined in the stinking shed. Bile rose in her throat and she covered her mouth. A warm hand rubbed soothing circles on her back. She saw Dean looking at her sadly. Possibly regretting his part in the events that had led her to this point. He withdrew his hand and patted her once on the shoulder, before joining Sam at the door.

 

“Pass me the feather, please,” Castiel said softly. 

 

The brothers craned their necks, instantly curious at the mention of a feather. He held it, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He slid the index finger of his other hand against its soft edge. It bit deep and blood welled from the wound, soaking into the fibres. Claire had been absently stroking the feather in her pocket since Castiel had given it to her. Although it seemed metallic, like a feather cast from silver, it was silky soft, and she couldn't understand how it had cut the angel like a knife. The blood had vanished, leaving only a red tint to the very edge of the quill.

 

“Don't worry, it will retain its power. This is just to help you pull. Think of it like a magnet. Now, this will work the same as before, but when you feel my power wane, I need you to pull. Concentrate and say this: Yolcam Lonshi. It’s Enochian.”

 

“Yolcam Lonshi.”

 

“Very good, but a short O sound, like go.”

 

“Yolcam Lonshi.”

 

“Again”

 

“Yolcam Lonshi.”

 

“Perfect, now hold the feather in this hand, and we are as ready as we’ll ever be.” 

 

He folded his hands around the fist that held the feather and took a few steadying breaths. Claire reached out to the first victim. Light spilled from Cas’ palms, and shortly after evidence of the miracle could be seen. The woman’s breath rattled as her tissues folded themselves back together. Sam knelt beside her, his quiet voice comforting her. Dean eyed her critically, and then Cas. The angel seemed fine. Claire moved on. It was at the third victim that she pulled her hand back slightly and turned to Castiel. He was frowning in deep concentration, but apparently with little success. He nodded once at Claire, who again stretched out her hand. She took a deep breath, and in a clear, if shaky, voice spoke.

 

“Yolcam Lonshi.” 

 

To an outsider Cas seemed indifferent. Sam had looked up in curiosity when Claire had spoken. Both he and Dean watched the muscle of Cas’ jaw twitch, and the slight spasm of his shoulders as tremors shook him. Dean leaned over to whisper in Sam’s ear.

 

“Cas said when Claire pulls at his mojo, it’ll hurt. I think we need to get these guys out of here before he starts screaming.” 

 

Sam nodded and helped the first woman to her feet, guiding her out of the door, Dean behind him with a teenage boy. When they got to the Impala, Dean had Delilah started up the stolen car they had arrived in, and settled the two victims in the back. Sam returned with the third.

 

Dean was just coming up to the shed when he heard Cas scream in pain. He bolted through the door and saw the angel kneeling, still clutching Claire’s hand. Dean nearly rushed to his side, but he saw the look of pure terror on Claire’s face. Her hand, extended to the fourth victim, was shaking. Dean stalked over and grabbed her face, pulling it away from Cas, so she was looking at him.

 

“Hey, hey. It’s alright. Cas is fine. He said it would hurt. But he's fine. Now you need to concentrate. You don't have time for feelings. You have a job to do. You need to save these people. You can do this.” He let his hands fall from her face and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

 

Her breathing slowed and she seemed to calm down. She held out her hand again and all but whispered the Enochian words. Cas had tucked his head against his raised arm to muffle his shouts. Dean kept his hand on her shoulder, and smiled at her when she raised her eyes. Sam escorted the middle aged gentlemen out of the shed, softly offering some words of comfort or explanation. Claire shuffled over to the fifth victim; thankfully there was little room in the shed, meaning Castiel could stay knelt down. His legs were shaking and he didn't trust himself to get up. She froze, arm half extended, unsure if she could go through with it again. Dean resumed his position at her side. He gently placed his hand over hers and tugged it softly until her fingers rested against the woman’s forehead.

 

“If it helps, he is a bit of a dick,” Dean said with a small chuckle.

 

Cas laughed, slightly hysterically from the floor. “I learned from the best,” he choked. 

 

The hunter snorted and walked round to kneel next to the angel. He hooked his shoulder under his friend's arm, taking some of the weight. Cas sagged against him, thankful. He placed his palm flat between Cas’ shoulder blades. He nodded to Claire.

Cas’ shout, directly next to his ear nearly deafened him. He understood all too well how upset Claire felt. He was jaded beyond his years and yet his nerves were raw. Hearing Cas cry out, unable to help him, was nearly as bad as hearing Sammy do the same. Hell, it was as bad. His whole body shivered against the hunter. Dean was holding most of the angel’s weight now. He brought his free hand up to brush the sweaty hair off Cas’ face. Cas raised his head slightly to look at Dean, eyes unfocused but glowing bright.

 

“Hey Cas. You’re okay buddy. One more to go. I’ve got you. It’s almost over. It’s almost over, Cas. I’ve got you. You lean on me.” Dean continued whispering soothing words while Cas screamed. He screwed his eyes shut. He felt another pair of hands wrap around Castiel, and heard Sam’s soft voice add to his mantra. Cas finally fell silent.

 

Dean looked up and saw Claire holding Cas’ hands, gently lowering his shaking limbs. Tears streaked down her face. The brothers pulled away from the angel slightly, giving him some air, but Dean remained crouched close by, aware that Cas was definitely too shaky to be trusted to stay sat up on his own. Sam knelt by the final victim and was gently coaxing him out the door when Cas had finally pulled himself up on Dean’s arm. He pulled the angel’s arm over his shoulders, ignoring the protests and walked with him out of the shed. Claire walked beside them, her hand clasped in his sleeve again.

 

When they got back to the cars, Sam advised that he would drive the Impala and Delilah the stolen Toyota, to drop the victims off at the local Police Station, before dropping the younger hunters at their motel. He had expected Dean to protest and insist on driving the Impala himself, but unless they wanted to pile in like clown cars, someone was going to have to wait at the barn. And realistically, it was probably safer for two people to wait, what with it being an ex-vampire nest. Dean agreed that it was probably best if he and Cas remained behind, especially if the coolbox stayed with them.

 

The tail-lights of the two cars faded away. Dean flicked the tops off two beers with the edge of his machete. When he passed the bottle over to Cas, he stopped and grabbed the angel’s hand roughly.

 

“Cas, what is that?” he said through gritted teeth. 

 

He twisted his wrist so the palm was facing up. In the dull moonlight he could see a thick, almost black, burn on Cas’ wrist. It ran along his arm and disappeared under his sleeve. He let out a low whistle. Seeing Castiel’s guilty face, he dropped the beers and quickly grabbed his other arm. An identical burn. He narrowed his eyes and tugged at the sleeve. It appeared to go all the way up the angel’s arm.

 

“What. Is. That. Cas.” He shook the angels arms slightly in emphasis.

 

“It’s a burn, Dean.”

 

“I know it’s a burn, you little shit. Where did it come from? You said that healing mojo with Claire wouldn't hurt you.” 

 

Castiel, for the second time today, assumed his ‘make Dean stop shouting’ face. It wasn't as effective the second time around. He sighed.

 

“It's not from the healing. It was smiting all those Vampires.”

 

“Uh-huh. And why did it burn you?” 

 

Cas pondered this for a moment, wondering how best to explain it, without Dean getting frustrated and yelling. “'Short circuit.” 

 

Dean glowered at him. 

 

“You know, big surge of power, melts the wires.”

 

“And why isn't it healing?”

 

“I told you. It's difficult to control my powers right now.” He sounded slightly offended that the hunter had forgotten this key fact so soon. 

 

Dean eyed him for a moment and collected the barely spilled beer from the floor. He passed the other one to Cas. The angel relaxed slightly, leaning against the barn. Dean took a long pull from the bottle and wiped his mouth. He rubbed his hand against the stubble on his chin.

 

“Nope sorry, not good enough. I need to know what the fuck is going on with you, before you keel over.” 

 

Cas fixed him with a look that would make a basilisk balk. He tried to express, wordlessly, that he was an Angel of the Lord, he was not going to be ordered around. And would like to remind Dean that he only put up with Dean’s bullshit because he liked him. 

 

Dean stared him down, completely disregarding this. Silently offering the threat of a banishing that would send him to the other end of the county if he was going to play that game.

 

“Dean, I already told you. I'll explain everything when we get home. It's complicated and I need to make sure you and Sam understand what I'm telling you. Surely even you can wait six hours.”

 

“Fine,” the hunter said stiffly after a long pause. He turned away from the angel and absently fiddled with the label on his bottle.

 

“That, and I really need a nap,” Castiel groaned, rubbing at his eyes. Dean laughed. He slid down the barn until he was seated and yanked Cas down next to him, pulling on his coat so as not to hurt his burns.

 

“Sammy might be awhile, you might as well grab a few Z’s now. I’ll watch over you,” Dean smirked at the angel, goading him. 

 

Cas groaned and shoved him. They sat in silence. After a while, Cas’ breathing slowed and he appeared to be in whatever deep meditation that angels called sleep. Dean plucked the bottle from his hand and set it on the ground.

 

He let his mind wander, but he found his eye straying to the burn peeking out from under the angel’s sleeve. He thought about those ominous words. Burning out. His stomach churned as he worried. He found himself staring at Cas face, wondering if he should commit every inch of it to memory. He had lost so much. He couldn't lose Cas, not again. A lump rose in his throat. He smashed the bottle into his teeth in his haste to drink. Dean Winchester wasn't a devout man; he had met God and been unimpressed. He had never prayed to anyone but Cas. Never trusted anyone or anything to answer his prayers, other than his best friend. He blinked furiously as he repeated to himself, Please be okay, please, just once, be okay.

 

Castiel felt himself rise towards consciousness. His feathers twitched as he heard Dean’s voice echo softly along each quill. It pressed into his half-awake mind. Please be okay, Cas, just one goddamned time, be okay . . . He felt the eldest Winchester start and swear softly when he reached out and patted his leg. 

 

“‘Mmm be okay,” he rumbled, sleepily.

 

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enochian translation: Bring forth [your] power
> 
>  
> 
>  Add me on any platform, I do a lot of waiting around for lab work so I'm always available for some banter.
> 
> [ Quailpower on Tumblr ](https://quailpower.tumblr.com/) or on Discord @Quailpower#2270
> 
> Special thanks to my Beta [ Lexifer ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexifer/pseuds/Lexifer)


	3. Chapter 3

Sam pulled up outside the bunker and endured a small scuffle in the front seat with Dean who frantically tried to stop him turning off the engine. He was hissing about never turning the engine off unless you want them to wake up. Seeing as there were no barely sleeping toddlers in the car, Sam assumed that ‘them’ referred to Cas. He usually chided Dean for referring to the angel as a child, but he had to agree that in his few moments of consciousness Cas had been acting like someone who had had their Lego confiscated after refusing to eat the Happy Meal they specifically requested. A low grumble told them it was too late anyway. Castiel rolled upright, squinting at the world balefully. Dean and Sam exchanged looks, wondering if they were in for another round of strangely PG rated wrath. When none was forthcoming, they elected to slink into the house in awkward silence.

 

Sam was easing himself into one of the wooden library chairs when Cas breezed passed him and began peeling his coat off. He carefully hooked it over the back of a chair, and his suit jacket followed. He rolled one sleeve of his shirt to the elbow and then the other. Sam raised a brow in question as Cas slid the tie from his collar with a silken swish. As their friend reclined wearily, the youngest Winchester felt the burning ember of anxiety that he had been holding flare into an inferno. Castiel looked tired. More often than not he always seemed a little tired lately, tired or worried. He could scarce see the hard lines of his face from years ago; the power and conviction worn away. The Warrior of God, reduced. And it was strange, that a few feet of familiar cloth could colour him so, but dressed in only his shirt and slacks he seemed even smaller. Barely there, as if he was merely an illusion of light and glass.

 

Sam pressed his palms to his eyes, fearing the prickle of tears as the panic crested. He feigned a yawn, hoping he could steal a moment to compose his surging emotions. Not enough sleep for this, he thought. 

 

Dean could feel the fear and worry radiating from his brother like a fever, but it couldn't reach him. He was cold all over. Frozen in place, he couldn't bring himself to take a seat at the table. As if by refusing to sit down, he could put off the moment that the other shoe dropped. His knuckles on the back of the chair were white. He let his hand fall. Mumbling something about fetching a drink, he strode away from the table. No one made any indication that they had heard him.

 

Dean returned with three large, steaming mugs. He put them down gently, sliding one with a bumblebee towards Cas, and gave his brother one that said Fabulous in chipped gold lettering. He edged around Cas’ chair. He managed to make it almost all the way to his seat before his arm flicked out of its own volition and pressed his hand to the angel’s forehead. It lingered for a moment before he took his seat.

 

“Hmm, it’s calmed down a bit, but you’re still running hot,” he said thoughtfully. 

 

His eyes fixed on Cas’ exposed arms. Cas rolled his arms so his palms were facing upwards, obediently obeying the silent instruction to bare his wrists. Dean delicately traced a path from elbow to wrist with a finger, highlighting the faint redness, the charred black flesh almost completely healed. He averted his gaze, feeling the heat of the angel’s stare. He took a hasty gulp of coffee and hissed, burning his tongue. 

 

“So. What’s going on Cas?” His tone was clipped, as if he was trying to get the whole thing over with quicker. 

 

Castiel seemed to be mentally trialing several answers before turning his gaze to encompass both brothers. His long fingers traced the grains in the wood. “What do you know about angel wings?” 

 

The boys looked at each other, not expecting a pop quiz. Sam raised his hand slightly as if requesting permission to answer and began counting off on his fingers.

 

“Er, well we’ve used the feathers before in spells so they must exist even if we can't see them. And er, they pack quite the magical punch, as far as spell components go. They burn up when an angel dies . . .“ they both looked relatively embarrassed, eyes rolling sideways. “I mean, we have a ton of lore but can't imagine it being very reliable, what with how . . . tight-lipped angels can be.” 

 

Cas had his full attention fixed on Sam, brows raised and nodding slightly. Apparently not displeased with his summary. Leaning back in his chair, and out of Cas’ line of sight, Dean had a manic mixture glee and disbelief on his face, not knowing whether to be pleased at Sam calling Cas out or offended for the angel.

 

“That is a fair point. Angels are, by nature, secretive and devious,” Cas deadpanned. His tone seemed deadly serious, but the small twist of a smile at the corner of his mouth and twitch of his brow helped ease the tension from the room. He took a steadying breath. Cas reached out and gently brushed his hand across Dean’s knuckles, pulling his attention back.

 

“When an angel is burning out, it is because their wings have degraded to the point that they are losing the ability to control their power. Unchecked, our fire burns hotter and hotter until we are consumed.” He took several deep pulls from his mug, resting it against his cheek and absently drawing shapes in the damp rings on the tabletop. He fixed Sam and then Dean with a long stare, attempting to push a feeling of calm onto them, as he had done in the barn.

 

“Angel wings are incredibly complex, with many, many mystical qualities. I’m sure you can pick my brains on the fine details later, Sam, but I will give you a working idea now. Their most important function is the maintenance of angelic grace. Because our bodies are not physical, and thus not bound to matter, our grace cannot store power the same way that human souls can. So angel wings constantly absorb energy - celestial, heat, sound, anything - and charge the angel’s grace. They are physical and ethereal at the same time, existing across all dimensions. They are the only part of an angel which can manifest on the physical plane. That's the key. It allows them to store power in matter, like a soul would. And also acts like a lightning rod, conducting our power to the physical world, allowing us to heal, perform miracles, etc.

 

“So, our wings, our feathers, are constantly absorbing, storing and discharging power. Over time they degrade. Struggling to recharge and disperse power when it is needed. Eventually, if the worn out feathers aren't allowed to fall, the angel will suffer from increasing power surges until the feathers shatter. There is no coming back from that. Their fire overtakes them and they burn to nothingness.” He paused for a moment and held up his hand to silence the elder Winchester who had been looking steadily more frustrated as he talked.

 

“Now, I would prefer not to go out in a fiery inferno. To allow my wings to regenerate, I would need to let my feathers fall. And allowing my feathers to fall is not without its dangers. To do so, I must release all the energy I have left. I will be human for all intents and purposes, until my last feather falls and I can recharge safely. The other angels will know what I am doing when they feel that, and they will come for me. We are incredibly vulnerable when in fall. It is usually only done in the innermost sanctum of heaven, and since the Apocalypse I have felt less than a handful of angels attempt it. Even heaven isn't safe enough for most angels to consider it. And if having me, earthbound and weak, isn’t enough temptation alone, they will do anything they can to stop my power being restored. Even if it is only a fraction of what I had before, I will be a threat. And while usually I wouldn't even consider allowing my feathers to fall while in a vessel, it will make me harder to find. Unfortunately, it will be slower, and I have no real idea how long it will take. But I have no choice. I can’t leave it any longer or I won't survive. It could already be too late, I won't know until I try.” The last sentence was hardly more than a whisper, but it echoed around the silent room. 

 

Sam stared blankly at his empty cup. Dean put his head in his hands. They sat in silence.

 

After what seemed like hours of stifling stillness, Dean stood stiffly and disappeared into the kitchen without making a sound. The muted rattles and bangs he made as he prepared dinner echoed around the room. Sam padded over to a sideboard and retrieved a miraculously unopened bottle of whiskey. He placed it delicately on the table with three glasses. He returned to his seat, then got up again to nervously adjust the bottle so it was closer to Dean’s chair. He tried to give Cas a small smile, but the angel seemed to have checked out following his lecture. His face was blank and eyes unfocused.

 

Castiel wondered many things as the minutes ticked by. In his mind he ran his hands over each one of his feathers, silently assessing them for strength, taking note of small chips and flaws. Several were dulled, made pale by a lacework pattern of cracks beneath the surface. He briefly wondered what would happen to Sam, Dean and Claire without him. But mostly he wondered why Dean wasn't swearing, wasn't shouting. He had expected him to be angry. Angry at the world for never letting them catch a break, angry that Cas had not come to him sooner, even angry at stupid angels and their stupid wings, anything. Usually he could feel his anger from across the building, pulsing and jolting through the air around the hunter. The silence unnerved him so much that he even reached out to lightly brush against Dean’s mind. He was painfully aware that he was breaking their covenant of privacy, but could still feel nothing. Whatever he was feeling, he was currently working on autopilot. His mind still, with just the quiet clink of crockery. Perhaps it was too much. He had finally pushed the boys too far, asked too much. Become too much of a burden.

 

He barely noticed when Dean returned, three deep plates balanced precariously on one arm and a large bowl in his hand. He wordlessly placed a bowl of dinner rolls in the centre of the table and a bowl of soup at each place setting. Sam and Cas both mumbled their thanks. The silence continued as they ate. Sam tried to subtly signal to Dean that he needed to speak to the angel but he was ignored. After a series of strained coughs that caused Cas to enquire if he was ok, he gave up being subtle, resorting instead to a vicious kick under the table that made Dean’s green eyes water. Sam flinched as Dean threw down his spoon with a clatter. His glare would have melted a lesser man. His chair creaked as he raised in his seat slightly to pour them all a drink.

 

“So, Cas. Plan of action. Is there some additional warding we can put up to make sure this place is angel proof and is there anything you need to get this show on the road?” 

 

Castiel stared at him owlishly for several moments, confused. Dean seemed to read his reaction and raised his brows incredulously. Of course Cas would think that. As an honorary Winchester, low self worth was to be expected. It still hurt.

 

“What? You actually thought I wouldn't want to help? Fuck you, Cas.” He threw a roll at the angel, hoping to take some of the heat from his words. It bounced harmlessly off his chair and landed with a splash in Sam’s bowl, showering him with the remains of his soup.

 

“Thanks, guys,” he muttered sullenly as Dean dissolved into laughter and Cas chuckled throatily, still slightly confused. Sam wiped at his face with his napkin as his brother’s laughter faded away. He turned to face him and Dean snorted loudly.

 

“You missed a bit.” 

 

Sam swiped where Dean was pointing, looking sour. 

 

Dean tried to straighten his face, failing miserably. His chuckling increased. “It’s in your hair,” he gasped between laughs, clutching at his face. 

 

Sam had had enough. He hooked his foot under the rung of Dean’s chair and yanked it forward, bringing it and his brother crashing to the floor. This apparently only made the whole situation funnier for the elder Winchester, who continued to laugh from below the table. He scrabbled to a half crouch and grabbed at the bowl of rolls. He began to launch them, overarm, at his brother in quick succession. Sam ducked, dodging most of them.

 

“What is wrong with you?! Animal!” he yelled, throwing a roll from his own plate at Dean.

 

Castiel sighed and delicately pulled his glass towards him, away from the line of fire. A roll skidded across the table and bounced against his hand. He glared at it. It burst into flame. Sam and Dean stopped their increasingly aggressive food fight and goggled at him, open-mouthed. Cas’ face had shifted quickly from mild horror to embarrassment. He plucked a napkin from under his bowl and dropped it on top of the flaming roll. Dean clutched at the table wheezing through increasingly hysterical laughter. 

 

Sam raised his eyebrows, looking concerned. “Stressed?”

 

Dean was now folded in half, clutching at his knees trying to breathe. “So stressed,” said a serious voice near the floor. Dean pulled himself upright, depositing a handful of ruined rolls onto his plate. He sat down and took a slow drink from his glass, staring at a fixed point on the table. He knew that one look at Sam or Cas’ confused and concerned faces would only set him off laughing again.

 

“I have everything I need. Some of the warding and spellwork is complicated, it would be better if we started in the morning. I want to thank you, Dean, Sam. This means a great deal to me.” Castiel’s voice was soft and solemn. The brothers had now  returned their full attention to him. Sam smiled encouragingly. “But just so I know you both understand. For this to work while in a vessel, I have to pull my wings into the physical plane.” He stared at them, trying to will them to understand. Sam appeared to reach the conclusion faster.

 

“Wait, so physical as in, visible?” Cas nodded and Sam looked at him nervously. “But not, burn-our-eyes-out visible?” 

 

The angel gaped at him. “What? No, of course not!” Cas looked slightly offended and turned, scandalized, to Dean. Thankfully the elder brother had managed to slap a similar look of mild offence on his face before Cas turned. This earned him a slightly approving look from his friend. He gave himself a pat on the back for his quick thinking.

 

“So, real, solid wings. How big are they?” Dean eyed the doorway critically. “Are we going to need to knock the doors out so they are taller or wider?”

 

“They adjust to the vessel, so around a twenty to twenty-five foot span? But they do fold and flex easily so it should be fine in here . . . Tidying away all the loose paper and breakables may be an idea though.” He eyed the messy stacks of paper on the library tables, imagining the complete carnage a stray flap of his wings would bring. The slightly stiff look on Sam’s face suggested he was thinking the same thing. “So, that won't be a problem?”

 

“Nah, I’m sure we can manage. Good job you’re on house arrest anyway though. Might be a bit inconspicuous on a job!” Dean smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. He watched Cas take a small sip of whiskey when his brain caught up with him. The slightly nervous tone, the stiffness in his shoulders. “Cas, why would it be a problem?” His voice was even, trying not to seem too accusatory.

 

“I, don't know. I thought it was polite to ask.” Cas ruffled his hair with one hand and he was suddenly very interested in his phone. 

 

Sam fixed his brother with a long-suffering look, clearly hinting that he should give the angel a break. 

 

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Bull. Shit.” 

 

Sam sighed, rolled his eyes and decided it would probably be a good idea to clear the table. 

 

“You’re being weird. Weirder than normal. . . “ Dean drummed his fingers on the table and eyed Cas suspiciously. He had seen the angel act this bashful before. He snapped his fingers. “Is it a sex thing?” 

 

There was a loud crash as Sam dropped the plates. 

 

Cas was speechless, his face almost comically disturbed. “Is what a sex thing?”

 

“Your wings-”

 

“Why would my wings be a sex thing?!” Cas threw his arms in the air, wondering how he had ended up here. 

 

His voice was at least an octave higher than usual. Both he and Dean were yelling now, even if they weren't sure why. Sam silently picked up the broken crockery and considered hiding in the kitchen until it was over.

 

“I don’t know, don’t birds use their wings in like mating displays-”

 

“Do I look like a bird?!”

 

“Well I don't know! Do you?!”

 

“NO!” The lights flickered slightly. Sam sighed and edged between Cas and his brother, hands raised, asking for parley.

 

“Ok ladies, let’s calm it down before something or someone blows up. Dean, apologise for calling Cas a bird.” Sam Winchester, this is your life! 

 

Dean glared at his not-so-little brother. He crossed his arms stubbornly, alternately giving Cas and Sam the stink-eye. Sam cleared his throat and coughed, and it sounded suspiciously like bread roll. Dean eyed the blackened roll, still covered by Castiel’s napkin.

 

“Sorry Cas,” he muttered. 

 

Sam assumed this was the best he was going to get. He collected the last of the crockery and the broken pieces, before stomping into the kitchen. He returned to a sullen silence, with both men staring at opposite walls. He resisted the urge to pull at his hair. If he ever snapped and went on a rampage, not caused by demons or dark magic of course, it would be because of these two. He refilled their drinks and looked expectantly at Dean, his seemingly beatific smile masking the internal screaming. He jumped when his brother spoke, expecting at least another hour of sulky silence.

 

“Cas, buddy, we are going to get through this. Anything you need, anything, we’ve got your back. But you need to talk to us. We’re flying blind here.” He picked his words carefully, spoke stiffly and addressed his glass, idly swirling the amber liquid. Sam probably thought he was being awkward, dogging at the angel. But Dean knew that something was wrong. He could read it, in his posture and stare. Sometimes, he could see it, in his nightmares. The times he had been betrayed, and been the betrayer.

 

“In the past, when an angel would reveal themselves to a mortal, do you know what their greeting was? Fear not. Rarely were we well received. There was always fear.” Cas had crossed his arms and absently fiddled with the rolled cuffs. His eyes were downcast and his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. “They will not be what you are expecting.”

 

“Cas. You’re family, whether you like it or not. We don't care what any part of you looks like. You won't scare us away.” Dean’s calloused hand gripped the angels shoulder almost painfully tight. He smirked and gave him a small shake. “Besides, what’s a few extra appendages between friends? No need to be shy,” he laughed. It sounded forced, but Cas and Sam smirked dutifully. 

 

Cas pressed his hand lightly to the hunter’s, offering a silent thanks. He rumbled, clearing his throat. “Sam, would you mind grabbing something from the inside pocket of my coat?” Cas’ voice was slightly husky. 

 

The younger Winchester fished around for a moment before holding up a single white feather for inspection. Cas nodded and indicated with a flick of his hand that he was free to inspect it. Sam twirled and twisted the feather between his fingers. It was larger than the silver feather he had seen in Claire’s possession. It was nearly a foot long, and a rich, pearlescent white. Under the lights it seemed to shine slightly. He ran his thumb along the soft edge. It seemed largely unremarkable, similar to all the other angel feathers he had seen in hunter stores. He passed it to Dean. He, too, appraised the feather, tilting it this way and that. He pressed the tip against the pad of his finger, recalling how the silver feather had cut Castiel’s skin.

 

“Never really thought of you as a white and fluffy kind of guy,” he quipped, leaning to pass the feather to Cas. 

 

This comment seemed to please him; the corner of his mouth quirking up to show a flash of teeth. Cas held the shaft of the feather between his finger and thumb. He stared at it sadly for a moment, then closed his eyes. He felt the almost silent rush of air as the brothers sucked in a startled breath. At first it seemed like a trick of the light, but slowly the shaft of the feather seemed to be darkening. It faded from pale grey to a rich black as colour leaked into the feather. It was as if there was a hidden inkwell in the angel’s palm and the feather was eagerly drinking it up. The dark tone seeped along each of the feather’s soft fibres until it was completely black. He rolled it gently, letting the light catch it. It glimmered in subtle shades of purple and blue. He let it flutter from between his fingers down to the table. No longer touching him, the colour began to softly fade away, and before long it reverted to its pearly white tone.

 

“When they fall, they lose all the colour. I suppose that is why so many people imagine angels with white wings.” He rested his chin in his hand and stared down at the feather, seeming loathe to touch it again. He kept his eyes downcast, not wanting to see how the boys were looking at him. He hesitantly reached out and ran his finger along the smooth spine of the feather. Under his touch it darkened to a soft grey, and a mournful sigh escaped him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Add me on any platform, I do a lot of waiting around for lab work so I'm always available for some banter.
> 
> [ Quailpower on Tumblr ](https://quailpower.tumblr.com/) or on Discord @Quailpower#2270
> 
>  
> 
> Special thanks to my Beta [ Lexifer ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexifer/pseuds/Lexifer)


	4. Chapter 4

Dean heaved himself out of bed stiffly and shuffled into the kitchen. It was empty. That surprised him. Usually Sam, who was one of the world's true evils - an enthusiastic early riser - was awake long before him. Likewise, Cas rarely slept, and so was awake at all hours. However, unlike Sam who crashed around at dawn, Cas was silent until Dean woke up. It was a learned behavior to protect him from Dean’s psychopathic rage when he was awoken by the angel’s relatively new inability to sit quietly and wait. Apparently there are only so many times you can be woken by Michael Bay’s explosive cinematography before you develop a very real version of shell shock. That is, if the symptoms of shell shock include explosive anger, shouting, throwing furniture and locking your startled best friend in a warded cupboard until morning.

 

He pressed a stiff hand to the coffee pot and made a small, happy sound when the felt its warmth. He poured a large mug and gloried in the first few sips before padding into the library. This too, was empty, but signs of his brother and the angel were littered across the room. There were a few storage crates heaped on the tables and several small mountains of paper. He leaned over to inspect a sheaf that was scattered on the table next to Cas’ mug. He recognised the angel’s unusual hand; the letters were slightly oddly shaped, as one would expect from someone not writing in their native script. But what always annoyed Dean was how regular the writing was - more like a typeface than handwriting. The topmost sheet said:  _ Additional Warding. Bone Wards. Frequency Interference. Decoy?  _ He shrugged his shoulders; that sounded somewhat promising even if he didn't know what it entailed.

 

“I’ll put this one at the far end of the library.” Sam's voice carried into the room and Dean turned as he strode in. Sam gave him a small nod as he walked past and deposited a heavily warded box in one of the alcoves at the farthest corner of the library. “Okay, done!” 

 

After a few moments, Cas dragged himself into the library, walking stiffly and looking distinctly put out. Whatever he and Sam had been up early doing, didn't seem to have put him in a good mood at all. Dean glanced down at Cas’ empty mug and leaned over the table to hand over his own. Cas took it with a quiet thank-you and a small smile that made the hunter’s eyes crease at the corner.

 

“You guys been having fun without me?” he teased. Sam rolled his eyes and Dean only smirked more. He clapped his hands together, presenting the very embodiment of eagerness. “So, we have a busy day ahead of us? Before the big reveal,” he wiggled his fingers, pantomiming a tah-dah! 

 

Sam glowered, wishing, not for the first time, that his brother wouldn’t mask his nerves with humour. He didn't know if he could cope with a whole day of fake smiles and laughs without saying something hurtful. Cas eased himself into a chair stiffly and nursed his stolen drink. Sam realised after a moment of expectant silence that Cas was probably all talked out after spending a morning with him and his notepad of pre-prepared questions.

 

“We have some additional warding Cas has drawn up, to paint in here. We can do most of it and just put the final marks on after he’s done his thing. His tattoo will work to stop them using those locator spells or some kind of scrying. Cas is going to make some sort of angelic signal jammer so if any angel does get near here they won't be able to ‘hear’ him. And we need to make some special paint out of these old prophet bones; get this, they’re like super repulsive to angels. Kind of like angel repellant. We need to paint that on the property limits, too close and it will make Cas sick.” Sam smiled, pleased with himself.

 

“And you’re sure that will be enough?” 

 

Cas raised his eyes to Dean, a very dim glitter just visible in the stormy blue. He blinked slowly, like a cat, and nodded once. 

 

Dean made a low hmmm noise that might have been acceptance or skepticism. He stretched leisurely, wincing and sighing appreciatively when the joints popped. “So how come we’ve never used this angel repellant before if it’s so good?”

 

“Prophet bones aren't exactly common. The only ones who know about their special qualities are angels, and we can't exactly get near enough to them to collect them.” 

 

Bingo. Dean tried not to grin. He really was getting too good at this. He could read the angel like a book. He knew exactly where to dig to find the weak spots; the things Castiel wanted to keep hidden. “How did you get them then? As well stocked as we are here, I’d bet my ass we didn't have the bones of a prophet laying around.” 

 

Cas coughed and rubbed his knuckle against his chin, looking edgy. Sam spun on his heel to look at his friend, brows raised and mouth slightly slack in mild indignation that he had missed this key point.

 

“Meg got them for me,” he said softly, avoiding eye contact.

 

“Wow. So you went to her first, for help. You were fine talking to that demon bitch about your stupid angelic detox, but you had to wait until you were nearly dead before talking to us, before coming to us for help?” Dean kicked at one of the chairs, sending it crashing to the floor. He pointed an accusatory finger at the angel. “Fuck you and your species.” 

 

Sam tried to step in front of his brother but he was roughly shoulder-barged out of the way. Dean had almost made it to the hallway before Cas spoke.

 

“I didn't think you would want to help me, after what I had done. And even if you did, I didn't deserve it.” 

 

Sam gave Cas a sad smile before patting him on the shoulder. His gaze was locked on the elder Winchester. Dean half turned to return his stare; he was tensed with barely restrained energy, like a fox that had scented a rabbit. People had told Sam that the silent language of looks and gestures between the brothers was almost telepathic at times. But it was nothing compared to the intense, wordless communication between his brother and the angel. After several charged minutes, Dean turned and stalked down the hall, face unreadable. Cas sank in his chair and let out a long sigh. Sam mentally counted to ten, mouth set in a thin line. Dean had been awake less than thirty minutes and he was already at Cas’ throat. Sadly, this was not a new record for him. Dean Winchester could roll out of bed and kick off before his feet touched the floor. He wondered, sadly, if Castiel should have had better role models when learning about humanity. Hating yourself, shouting at people. The family business, he thought sarcastically. He cleared his throat.

 

“He’s only lashing out because he’s worried.”

 

“I know,”

 

“You shouldn't let him lash out at you like that, Cas.”

 

“You do.” He turned his stormy eyes to the younger Winchester, leaving him feeling exposed and raw. Cas flicked his eyes down, and Sam let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. “Your brother, for all his appearances, feels things very deeply. His emotions rage hot and strong, and it can be overwhelming for him. I suffer his temper because I can see the intention behind it. Love, pain, fear and frustration. I won't punish him for feeling, Sam.” 

 

Sam rumbled in his chest, his throat suddenly tight.

 

“And of course Sam, I would offer the same courtesy to you.”

 

“Thanks Cas,”

 

A clanking sound drew Sam’s attention back to the rear of the library. Dean was nonchalantly strolling back into the room, swinging two tins of paint in one hand and a ceramic carafe of holy oil hooked in his elbow. Cas didn’t seem surprised that he had returned.

 

“Got oil based paints for the warding, they’ll last longer. And I’m assuming we can't just grind up those bones and dump them into the store-bought stuff, because that would just be too easy. So hopefully the holy oil will work as a binder for that, unless you had something else in mind, Cas.”

 

“Very good, that will work perfectly, thank you, Dean.” His voice was pitched deep and warm. 

 

Dean’s cheek twitched as he quickly restrained the smile that had bloomed under Cas’ praise. Sam gawked at them, feeling like the teacher’s pet who had been outperformed by the delinquent in the back row. He found himself glaring at the back of his brother’s head, then quickly straightened his face when he realised what he was doing. He scooped up the empty cups and announced his intention to make a new pot of coffee.

 

When he returned Dean was seated watching with interest as Cas arranged items on the table in front of him. Sam quickly dropped into his own seat and slid their mugs across the table. He assumed that his friend was going to make the frequency disruptors and hopefully explain how they worked. He was realistic enough to know that Cas wouldn't go into too much detail; Dean was too antsy to sit in for a lecture. Cas took a sip of coffee, not seeming to care that it had only boiled seconds ago.

 

“Sam, if you could fill each of these jars with Holy water, please. Around a litre should do.” He pushed six jars over to Sam, who diligently filled them from the gallon jugs he had lugged in earlier. “Every angel has a unique resonance or frequency, it is how we recognise each other, regardless of what shape we take or vessel we wear. The grace, power and feathers of the angel all resonate, with feathers resonating the most. My power and grace will be all but nonexistent while in Fall but I will need to disguise the frequency my feathers give off. I’m going to use the feathers of other angels to clash and drown out my own.”

 

He removed a small, teardrop shaped, white clay pot from one of the boxes. It was perfectly smooth, the ceramic so fine it was slightly translucent. In place of a cork the clay had been tapered to a point. Cas snapped the tip off neatly, creating a spout. Sam was somewhat scandalised, feeling that the vessel was too fine to be so crassly treated. Cas tipped the container, pouring some of its contents into each jar. A soft white powder flowed and plumed like flour, but shimmered like crushed pearl.

 

“This is powdered quartz and opal, it will amplify and slightly distort the resonance of the feathers.” He flicked open a box, revealing a small collection of soft, snowy feathers of various sizes. Meticulously he plucked each one from the box and laid them all out on the table in neat rows. Castiel next spent several minutes with his eyes closed, slowly running his index finger along the spine of the feathers. Sporadically he would frown, pick one up and press it lightly to the underside of his chin. After each feather was appraised, it was placed in one of several piles. Cas opened his eyes finally and scooped the largest pile of feathers and returned them to the box. Apparently they were unsatisfactory. He indicated with a hand that they should tip all the feathers from each individual pile into the separate jars. Sam and Dean raised in their seats slightly, each bottling two jars of feathers. They looked at him expectantly as he began to twist the lids on and carefully number the jars. Dean looked slightly disappointed that there seemed to be no flashy effects or theatrics.

 

“So we need to arrange these in a circle around the bunker?” Sam queried, ghosting a circle with his hand over a blueprint of the building.

 

“Correct, hidden or buried if possible. Now, I have a few things to do outside so if you could prepare the paint for the bone wards while I’m out, that would be preferable.” 

 

Dean, glad of an excuse to stretch his legs, wandered over to the shelf and lifted the warded box. He inspected it, running his thumb over the unusual wardings. He absently started back towards the table, stopping only when Cas’ chair screeched backwards. He assumed one of his distinct, ‘the fuck is wrong with you’ looks. He stepped forward again and saw Cas cringe, taking several steps backwards as if he had been repulsed by a magnet.

 

“That needs to stay over there. Away from me.” Cas said, firmly. 

 

Dean scoffed slightly. He was positive Cas was being melodramatic. After all he had been in the same room as prophets with no ill effects. Surely they couldn't be that bad.

 

“They're just bones, Cas.”

 

“Dean! Please!” The angel had retreated further and looked like he was considering making a break for the door. 

 

Dean sighed and threw the box back into the corner, holding up his hands in sarcastic apology. Cas melted slightly against the wall. He quickly excused himself, needing to take a moment to regain his composure. Sam watched him leave then punched Dean in the arm, glaring. With a bored sigh, Dean wandered after the angel, knowing that unless he at least appeared to be apologetic, Sam was going to be intolerable for the rest of the day.

 

He found Cas tucked into one of the storage rooms near the kitchen. His back was to the door and he didn't seem to notice Dean as he padded in behind him. The hunter reached out and lightly brushed his shoulder with a finger. He tensed. If Cas was feeling jumpy he would probably end up being thrown into the shelving any second now. He didn't expect Cas to whirl around, looking slightly guilty.

 

“What are-? Are you drinking Holy water?”

 

“No . . .” Cas tone was slightly incredulous. His eyes flicked to the jar still in his hand. “Yes.”

 

“Oooookay then,” Dean drawled, rolling his eyes slightly. Cas’ little quirks didn't even register on his scale of weird anymore. Suddenly, a look of intense satisfaction bloomed on his face. “It was you! I fucking knew it! I thought I was losing it! I've replaced the water jugs in Baby a dozen times!”

 

“Yes. Incidentally, you could use some work on your Latin, it's getting a little sloppy,” Cas snapped.

 

“You can tell who blessed the water by drinking it?!” He threw his hands in the air. “Of course you can! I seriously wouldn’t even know if you were fucking with me anymore.” Dean leaned against the shelving, running his hand through his short hair. He remembered why he had come to find the angel. Inclining his head to the water drum, he asked softly. “Feeling homesick or something?”

 

“Intense pain and fear are probably the closest sensations I can compare it to.”

 

“Those bones? Really? That bad?” He let out a low whistle. “Sorry, Cas. Man, I-” 

 

The angel held up his hand, silencing him. Cas ruffled his hair nervously - unconsciously mirroring Dean - leaving it sticking up at all angles.

 

“It's fine. I should have told you . . . I should have told you a long time ago,” he murmured. He squinted at his friend, weighing his words carefully. “Meg didn't know what the bones were for, or what they did. She only knew that she needed to find them and hide them for me. I would never have trusted her with the secrets I am imparting to you and Sam. I should . . .” he trailed off, looking frustrated and sorrowful. 

 

Dean felt his chest tighten as he looked at Cas’ forlorn face. He remembered words he had seen years before in a tome listing the names of angels. Castiel, the shield of God. The angel of solitude and tears, alone among his kind. He lunged forward, pulling the startled angel into a one armed hug. He slapped him roughly on the back, and was about to pull away when Sam’s smug voice echoed into room.

 

“Why are you two hugging in a closet?” His mouth twitched, trying and failing to stop a grin from ear to ear. Clearly this was karmic repayment for his suffering and he was loving every minute of it. Dean’s withering glare would make monsters wake from their nightmares in a cold sweat, but it couldn't touch Sam today.

 

“Well for one thing, this is a storage room. Not a closet. And I was apologising. Right, Cas?”

 

“He was, Sam.” Cas assured, nobily. 

 

Dean strode out of the room, head held high and acting righteously offended by his brother’s jibe. He might have left the situation with his dignity intact, had Sam not stage-whispered, “Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.” The elder Winchester launched himself at his brother. 

 

While they grappled in the corridor, Castiel sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. He looked like he was already regretting his decision to spend an extended stay in the bunker. He wandered over to where two of the most influential figures in the supernatural world had devolved into an ineffective tangle of flailing limbs. With a carefully inserted foot, he separated them, flipping Dean off Sam and onto his back. He grabbed their shirt collars and hauled them both to their feet, effortlessly. Cas had never been a parent, being a genderless, millennia old species that sprang into being fully formed, but he could rock a 'I'm not angry, I'm disappointed face.' Cowed, they followed him back into the library.

 

Sam listened attentively and made notes as Cas detailed how to prepare the bone wards. He placed a sheet of tracing paper over the blueprints and began to sketch the intended locations of both kinds of wards and the feather jars. Cas watched over his shoulder, periodically making small alterations to the arrangements. The angel then sliced at his arm with his angel blade. He let the blood drip into a copper bowl, assuring Sam that it would help reduce some of the bone wards negative effects towards himself. 

 

Dean squinted at the angel out of the corner of his eye. Cas had been evasive when asked what he would be doing outside. He had answered, too quickly, that he was going to find a safe place to discharge his power and prepare the site. Dean thought of the last word on Cas’ list - Decoy?

 

He inspected Sam’s map and scooped up the feather jars. Neither Sam nor Cas seemed surprised that he wanted to be doing something tactile. He made a lame joke about watching paint dry then dawdled, pretending to inspect his shovel. Castiel strode off towards the garage and Dean slipped out after him.

 

Dean Winchester might be getting on in years, his limbs stiffening, slowing and making alarming popping noises, but he was still one of the best damn trackers around. He followed the angel like a shadow, which was an achievement in itself. For a six foot tall, muscular frame, Castiel barely left a depression in the grass. Cas had followed the road for nearly a quarter mile - with Dean weaving in the shadows of the treeline beside it - before he veered off into the thick woodland. The terrain began to slope sharply. This slowed Dean down substantially as he had to watch his footing vigilantly. The forest around him began to thin until finally he came to a glade. He was careful to hang back in the shadows of the trees as he had lost sight of his quarry. Below him the hillside rolled in a lush tapestry of forest and fields. At its base, he could make out the shimmering surface of a small lake, partially obscured by trees. For a moment he forgot why he was on an impromptu hike. He was not one to marvel at the wonders of nature and the beauty of an untouched landscape, but he found himself wishing he had taken a moment to explore before now.

 

A flash of movement caught his eye. The white of Cas’ shirt caught the sun and reflected brightly. He too, was looking down at the distant lake. He had wandered further into the clearing, the scrubby grasses and weeds plucking at his dark trousers. He had his back to Dean, his hands tucked into his pockets.

 

“I know you’re there Dean,” his voice carried softly over the rustle of leaves. There was no anger or accusation, just simple acknowledgement. Dean shrugged and stepped into the open, striding forward to rest at Cas’ side. They stood in amiable silence. “You thought I might get myself into some mischief without you around?” 

 

Dean snorted. “You usually do.”

 

“I could say the same.”

 

“So, what’s this decoy you have planned then?” Dean mentally high fived himself when Cas’ eyes widened a fraction. “I can put two and two together Cas, I’m not just a pretty face,” he smirked, unable to conceal his smugness. Castiel laughed throatily, making the hunter smile even wider. 

 

“Definitely not, most of the time anyway,” the angel quipped archly. Dean elbowed him, ignoring the hot feeling in the tips of his ears.

 

“Come on, you fucking weirdo. What are we doing out here?” 

 

Cas regarded him closely for a few moments. He withdrew the black feather from his pocket, holding it up for Dean to see. “A decoy,” he said simply, as if this was explanation enough. 

 

He cupped it in his hands and seemed to be whispering to it. Dean thought he recognised a few of the harsh syllables of Enochian. He took a deep breath and blew on the feather. Instead of shooting out of his hands, as it should have done, it burst into flame. It burned white hot but didn't seem to be harming the angel. Dean squinted at the bright flame; he wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not, but the flames seemed to be twisting and turning in Cas’ palm as if it were alive. The light dimmed slightly, and he was sure he could make out distinct limbs in the twitching fire. If he had to hazard a guess, he would have gone with dragon-like. 

 

Cas pulled his hands away and the flame-creature remained suspended in the air. There were definitely two wings, a long neck and a twisting tail. Cas’ eyes flared blue for a second and the creature swooped away. In the bright light of the morning, Dean tracked its movement up into the clouds until it disappeared. Cas sagged slightly and grabbed Dean’s elbow to steady himself. A thin sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead and the light behind his eyes seemed to be pulsing like a guttering candle.

 

“Okay, that was weird. Even for us, that was weird, right?” 

 

Cas made a small noise of assent, eyes still fixed on the sky above them. 

 

Dean assumed his angelic senses could still detect the creature. “So, is there a reason we had to come all the way out here to send your fiery little buddy, whatever it was, on its way?” the hunter asked with forced casualness. The burn in his thighs from stomping through the forest had crept up on him and he was worried he might have to drag Cas’ deadweight home.

 

“It was an Aziazor. A construct of fire and feather, it will fulfill its purpose then disintegrate. Angels use them to carry messages and for other small tasks. I have sent it to lay a false trail. This is where I’m going to disperse my energy. Usually I would release it into the atmosphere but that would act like a homing beacon, bringing angels right to our doorstep. It’s harder to do, but if I can push it into the earth, it will be harder to detect. And should any angel find this place, they will follow the Aziazor, feeling the resonance of my feather within it.” Cas straightened and released Dean’s arm. He turned his attention inward, focusing his will on his vessel. His hammering heart slowed. The sweat cooled and dried on his brow.

 

“Will it make everything grow like crazy, like Anna’s grace did?” Dean asked softly.

 

“Yes. The plants, even the animals here will all be strengthened. A localised miracle. It will be nice. To use my power for something other than destruction and chaos.” 

 

Dean almost chastised him. Reminded him of all the good he had done. But he knew, more than anyone, how Castiel felt. A once loyal soldier, broken under the weight of his destiny and the cost of free will. A lost cause, drenched in the blood of his mistakes. He let his hand rest on Cas’ shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enochian: Aziazor [a thing] in the likeness
> 
>  Add me on any platform, I do a lot of waiting around for lab work so I'm always available for some banter.
> 
> [ Quailpower on Tumblr ](https://quailpower.tumblr.com/) or on Discord @Quailpower#2270
> 
>  
> 
> Special thanks to my Beta [ Lexifer ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexifer/pseuds/Lexifer)


	5. Chapter 5

Sam leaned against the kitchen counter, pressing a cold can of Diet Coke to the back of his neck. He had no idea where Dean or Cas were, which had left him in a state of smouldering annoyance. This was not helped by the post-exercise unholy trinity of tiredness, uncomfortable warmth, and shivery, damp skin. The skin on his face, neck and forearms prickled with heat where he had caught the sun. He returned the soda to the fridge. His calves and back twinged in protest as he sank into a stool. Dean was supposed to have returned from burying the feather jars, to help him paint the warding. Instead, Sam had found himself scuttling in a half-crouch around the entire perimeter, removing weeds and painting the swirling sigils in thick bone-paste on the dusty ground.

 

Dean finally sauntered in half an hour later, sweaty and with dirt smudged across his arms and face. Ignoring Sam’s caustic stare, he rummaged in the fridge for a carton of leftovers and a bottle of beer. He could feel the blunt end of his brothers barely repressed anger striking at the back of his head. To anyone else, Sam would appear to be in a state of Zen-like calm, possibly with a side of ‘resting bitch face’. However, Dean knew that at this moment Sam was lamenting the missed opportunity to maim him when he had been soulless and unburdened with pesky moral constructs. 

 

Realising he would need to offer some explanation for his lateness, he gave his brother a brief rundown on Cas’ strange feather decoy and his chosen location. Being an ardent jogger, Sam already knew about the lake and was indifferent to Dean’s wistful speculations of purchasing a jet ski. He was definitely disappointed he had missed the feather conjur-ling. He peppered his brother with questions, dragging a half-decent conversation out of it and eventually leading Dean to make a small sketch on a napkin. This seemed to distract Sam enough for him to temporarily forgive Dean for skipping out on using the foul smelling bone paint, even if he was sure as salt that his brother had just loitered outside for a while.

 

They ate lunch in silence, apart from a few exclamations of horror from Dean as Sam made himself a green smoothie. Sam, for his part, maintained the facade of long-suffering patience and explained possibly for the hundredth time  _ that it was Spirulina, Dean. Yes, it's a kind of algae. It's really nutrient dense. They give it to the astronauts on the ISS. _

The elder Winchester left his brother to his horrible drink and went to wash up. He shucked off his jeans and kicked them across the floor. As he peeled off the damp shirt, it snagged on his watch, resulting in a graceless wrestling match with the dark cotton. Once free, he yanked at the offending strap, intending to launch it across the room in a fit of ill humour. Instead, he stared at the small silver hands that greedily snatched the seconds and minutes away from him. His entire world seemed to have been reduced to the single number three. The time he would have to trek back through the woodland and meet Cas. Possibly for the last time. Because for all their preparation, Cas still couldn't guarantee that he was going to come through this in one piece. And worse still, there wasn't some adversary or force to be faced and defeated, a creature or clause to be outwitted or bargained with. It was biology, if multidimensional creatures of light and energy could have biology. A constant cycle, the rise and fall of feathers, like the 

seasons or the tide. Or like life, death and taxes for people who weren’t Winchesters.

 

All Dean could do was be there, and hope. Hope that their claim on the angel was strong enough. That Castiel was a Winchester, his pound of flesh paid over and over. That the universe could kindly go and fuck itself and leave them alone for once.

 

A sharp pain brought Dean back from his contemplations. He had been holding the fastening of the watch strap so tightly it had drawn blood. Cursing under his breath, he sucked on the offending thumb and waited while the water heated up. He washed himself mechanically, staring into the steamy haze as if it held all the answers to life's mysteries. He realised he had been leaning against the tiled wall, motionless, for long enough that the water around him had started to cool. He knocked it off before the warm water completely ran out. He spent almost as long sat on his bed, damp towel still wrapped around his waist. Sporadically, he would rise and perform a small task, such as retrieving socks from the drawers, before returning to his seat.

 

Eventually Sam came to fetch him. He looked worried when he saw Dean, shirtless and shoeless, apparently in deep contemplation. Faced with an audience, or rather specifically, an audience that was Sam, he quickly threw on his shirt and boots. He slapped on a cheerful grin and spent several minutes joking about getting old and being tired. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to his brother about his worries, but being a parent first and a brother second had left its mark. It was as easy as breathing, to compartmentalise, to shroud himself with humour. A pantomime where every day was an encore. 

 

And so, while they hiked through the woods, Dean maintained the perfect performance of brotherly amiability, chatting with Sam and trading insults. All the while, his mind was racing. Frantically replaying every interaction with Cas over the past few days. Desperately searching for some missed detail or tell. Some indication that Cas had let slip about how today might end. Surely, he wouldn't have had them spend all morning painting sigils and burning jars if he wasn't expecting to come back from the glade with them? But then again, they had never seen the sigils or spellwork Cas had drawn up. It could be anything - protection for when he was gone? Fuck.

The night before, Dean had crept into the kitchen, hoping a nightcap or nine might calm his churning stomach and tight chest. He had found Cas in the dark kitchen, slumped at the table, his chin propped up on his palm. He’d assumed the angel had fallen down another rabbit hole on the internet and was too deeply invested in his phone to notice him. Dean had considered flicking on the light, but his tired, itchy eyes objected. It had been light enough for him to navigate the kitchen without stumbling anyway. As Dean padded around the table he’d expected Cas’ usual quiet greeting. When he was met with silence, he had wondered if the angel had fallen into one of his little angel-naps at the table again. Almost as soon as the thought had crossed his mind, Cas had turned his face slightly, rolling his eyes up from the tabletop. In the dark they’d appeared luminous, the blue light ebbing and flowing, turbulent and alive. It reminded Dean of moonlight shining through water, and it had taken his breath away for a second. It might have been the low light and Cas’ pale skin reflecting the prismatic glow, but for the first time in years, he’d been struck by how alien Cas was. There could be no mistaking that this was not a man. It was power, reverence and wrath  wearing a man's shape.

 

After a few false starts, he’d finally remembered how to talk and managed to ask Cas what he was doing sitting in the dark, expecting a sarcastic retort about cupboards and to be told to go to bed. Cas had unconsciously flicked his still shining eyes down to the wide bowl full of water in front of him. Dean had wondered why he’d been so unnerved, as he had seen his friend’s eyes light up countless times. Maybe because they’d seemed to be stuck on? He’d opened his mouth to ask Cas about his eyes but froze. The soft blue light had reflected off the water, leaving its surface to shine, mirror-like, but the reflection there was neither his or Castiel’s. A dark, twisting shape had stirred in the water. Six burning, blue eyes had turned to him and blinked, then the water had rippled and become, once again, just water.

 

Cas had eyed him with something bordering concern on his exhausted face. Dean’s eyes had remained fixed on the bowl, half expecting lovecraftian horrors to burst out of it, because, obviously, that was his life. A soft hand had pushed him gently onto a stool. Cas had returned to his seat and slid the bowl across the counter top, so it was as far away from them as possible. Dean hadn't bothered to argue when Cas told him, in their language of looks, that it wasn't important and not to worry. He had been too tired, and didn't even object when the angel had pressed lightly at his consciousness with feelings of calm. He did, however, still have his dignity, so he’d fixed his face to look mildly peeved and concentrated on not collapsing in relief when the tight ball of anxiety inside him had been washed away.

 

Castiel had spoke softly, his voice low, almost a whisper. He’d recounted his memories of heaven, before God had left. Before the hearts of angels had cooled and become jaded. The happiness of simpler times. How the different angels had liked to time their Fall to various seasons and cycles, young enough to be fascinated and awed by the movements of creation. That close friends and companions would Fall together, deep in the inner sanctums of heaven. Curled around each other in a complex tapestry of feathers, sometimes awake, sometimes entering their meditative states. How the Rit-Zen and even the other angels in Fall would soothe the ache in their wings with their voice or hands. The sheer, indescribable joy in the feeling of new feathers and the first flight. 

 

Dean had rested his head on his hands and listened without interruption. He wasn't sure if it had been for Cas’ benefit or his own. Perhaps both. His eyes had rested on the gentle swirling of light behind the deep blue of the angel’s eyes, the low timbre of Cas’ voice almost hypnotic. Dean had felt his eyes begin to droop, and finally they’d closed almost of their own volition. Out of habit, he’d quickly if not very coherently prayed, still listening. Unseen, Cas’ mouth had quirked into a smile, and the last thing Dean had felt before he’d drifted into sleep was the gentle press of a hand to his forehead.

Castiel stood almost in the same position Dean had left him, turned to face westwards, the sun warming his skin as he watched small birds flit around the lake shore. He watched their small wings beat hurriedly as they twisted and turned in the air. He stretched out his own wings and gently fanned them. For now, they remained in the ether, adjacent to the physical world and unseen. He pushed them gently against the veil. Not enough to physically manifest them, but enough to distort the membranous separation between the dimensions. Pressing just enough to feel the wind blow through his feathers. He smiled.

 

Around him, a circle of ground had been cleared. It had taken a lot of concentration to burn away the plants in the circle and not set the whole hillside alight. The dark ash left behind had darkened the sandy soil slightly but otherwise there was no evidence that greenery had ever been there. The circle was around ten feet across. A few inches from its edge, there was a band of black that glittered in the dusky sun. He had mixed holy oil with a fine graphite powder and applied it in a line almost four inches thick around the circle. Inside the circle was a complex mandala of sigils and lines. It had taken him hours to prepare, each mark carefully sketched out in the dirt with the point of his angel blade. Then, each shallow furrow in the soil was inked in blood. He had recut his left hand so often that the skin was red and aching, even with meditative concentration of his healing ability. He was trying to ignore the odd twinging sensation in his calves that was likely from contorting himself into a weird squat for several hours. 

 

He was supposed to be spending the last hour before Dean and Sam arrived focusing and meditating, but he found his mind wandering at every bloom of pain. He was surprised that he wasn't afraid of burning out. Death had been an occupational hazard to him for a long time. And he had died before. Logically he knew there would be no reprieve this time. God was gone, that much was certain. There would be no revivals, no rescues. There was no heaven for angels. If this was the end, he had made his peace. Preparations had been made. The Winchesters would manage without him. Knowing that his death would only add to their pain was one of the only things that kept him from letting the flames overtake him.  

At ten past the hour, Cas realised that the brothers would soon be arriving - no doubt Dean would be dragging his feet and would make them late. He shrugged off his coat and blazer, hooking them neatly over a nearby branch. He had been reflecting on the possibility that his Fall would be successful. He had never shed his feathers in a vessel; no doubt that in itself would produce undesirable results. What bothered him more was the realities of being, for all intents and purposes, human. He assumed that the appropriation of energy through feathers that usually sustained him would not be translatable to a human body. Much like when his grace was naturally reduced and could not transport the energy to his vessel, he would be forced to partake in cellular respiration and all its horrors. He shuddered. Why did humans have to be so. . .moist? He wasn’t entirely sure why most of the organisms on the planet chose to partake in the krebs cycle. Of course, it was a legitimate way to create cellular energy, that was a given, but surely there was a less wasteful way of going about it. Was there really any need defecate nearly every day, and urinate ten times that? Honestly the sheer time lost was maddening. 

 

At this point he had slipped off his shoes and tucked his socks into them. He hardly noticed the prickle of coarse grasses against his feet. He slipped his tie from his neck and started undoing his shirt buttons. He had continued along the vein of thought to the other horrors of humanity, specifically hangovers and how horrible mouths feel in the morning. 

 

It was at this point that he had to remind himself that dying was definitely not the aim today, and he shouldn't be trying to sell the idea to himself. This evolved into an in-depth thought exercise as to the reasons why humans got suicidal. He speculated that many more would become suicidal if they had experienced what he had: indoctrination, mind control, torture, murder (both committed and a victim of), insanity, insanity with added genocide, and meeting God (who was an ass). Yes, it would definitely be very easy to become suicidal if that happened to someone. He made a mental note to mention this to Dean somehow without worrying him. Afterall, he didn't know what being locked into a vessel for an unknown time would do to him. Can neurochemistry affect you if your consciousness isn't bound to the squishy nerve bag? 

 

He had told Dean once that he was suicidal, but the reality had been much worse than that; it had just been the closest human word he could find. Becoming Orochi would offer none of the peace of suicide. Only the most penitent or devout angel would even contemplate it. If you could become Oracahe, you could easily kill yourself. Definitely something to watch out for then.

 

He flinched sheepishly when he heard the brothers stomp into the glade. Sam and Dean, especially, would not approve his contemplation of self-destruction. He covered this by whipping his now open shirt from his shoulders and placing it with his coat. Dean was so high strung he could feel the torturous anxiety coming off of him in waves before he heard their approach. Sam might have an almost supernatural ability for empathy, but even he was unlikely to detect something Castiel wanted to keep hidden. The angel simply didn't have enough of the normal micro-expressions or body language for Sam to pick up on. Dean, on the other hand, could smell a lie from him six states over. Once or twice he had even inspected him as he slept, hoping to expose the source of this apparent telepathy, and was suitably disgruntled when he did not find any evidence of it. 

 

Cas took a moment to organise his thoughts. Hands tucked into his pockets, he padded around the circle to meet them, hoping to exude confidence.

 

“Oh fuck,” Dean whispered. “You’re going to die.” 

 

Sam gasped. 

 

Cas looked like someone discovering that multi-level marketing was a scam after investing twenty grand. He backpedaled frantically, trying out a scornful huff. “What? No!”

 

“Bull. Shit.”

 

“There was always a risk, Dean. Even you could die tomorrow in a car crash, but you don't see me objecting to you driving that airbag-less deathtrap.” 

 

Too late, Cas realised that this was not an ideal argument to pursue. Dean’s eyes narrowed in warning, and this in and of itself was a privilege; few got away with besmirching Baby’s good name without at least a punch for their troubles. Cas held up his hands in submission, dropping his eyes so to not provoke Dean further with an accidental eye-roll. 

 

Sam, who had accepted Cas’ assertion that he was going to be fine, tried to nonchalantly lean against a tree, resorting to his tried and true method of pretending not to exist while Dean and Cas argued. He wondered if he should find some new podcasts to listen to, because the two of them being in close quarters definitely wasn't going to be a recipe for domestic bliss.

 

“We’ve been through this. I have two choices. Either I try this, today, or I just wait to explode at an undisclosed time and location. Taking out anyone and anything I’m with. If it’s my time, I want to go on my terms. I don't want anyone I care about to get hurt because I’m holding out for a miracle I know isn't coming!” Cas was shouting now, striding across the space between them. 

 

Dean held his gaze, unflinching. He could feel the sincerity in Cas’ words, but something inside him refused to relent. He couldn’t accept that this was their only option. They’d had worse odds before and had come out on top. A small, insidious voice inside him questioned whether Cas had finally grown tired of living, tired of them, and was looking for an easy way out. 

 

Anger flared within Cas when he saw that Dean was unbending before him. The tree next to Sam burst violently into flame. Neither acknoledged the younger Winchester’s gasp of  _ shitshitshit _ as he dived away. Castiel turned to the blaze, angry with Dean, angry that he couldn't control his powers, angry with everything. He glared at the flames, heavenly wrath distilled into two blue eyes. Dean recoiled slightly. The fire ceased as if it had never existed, the only evidence being the slightly smoking foliage. 

 

Turning his incandescent eyes back to the elder hunter, he quickly took two steps forward. Less than a foot away from the man, he reached out and grabbed him forcefully. The heel of his palm was flat against Dean’s forehead, fingers threaded into his hair, gripping tight. 

 

Dean knew that he couldn't pull away without risking to test it. When he wanted to, the angel could be immovable, like he was cast from iron, and history told him that without fail, fighting him would only make it worse for Dean. Although he quailed inside under the threat of Cas’ anger, he didn’t believe Cas wanted to hurt him. He had been told once that he had no faith, but that was wrong; he had faith - in Cas. He waited.

 

Dean jolted sharply when he felt Cas press heavily against his mind. He had years ago forbidden the angel from any kinds of mental manipulation, which he had faithfully obeyed. Sam occasionally entertained some mental shenanigans with Cas, but he was sure this was for novelty alone. Rarely, Cas would lightly push a word or a feeling towards him, allowing Dean to pull away if he wanted. He realised that although the pressure was much heavier than he was used to, he was being granted this same choice. He nodded his head almost imperceptibly against the angel’s hand. A rush of sensations and images flooded him. There was a kaleidoscope of colours and fire. Lots of fire. And feathers, in a rainbow of colours, but mostly black. Some images he didn't understand. He shook under the sensory assault. He could feel heat, but at the same time it didn't seem to be burning him. A rush of pain took his breath away. It was as if someone had taken every nerve in his body and pulled, and when it seemed almost too much to bear, he was back in his own body.

 

Cas removed his hand and stepped backwards, his arm half extended, ready to catch Dean if he fell. Sam had rushed over and was eyeing the angel with mild suspicion, although this was more to do with Dean’s sudden okaying of mind-mojo more than anything else. For the thousandth time he wondered if he was missing some vital communication tool.

 

“That pain, that was you?” Dean rumbled, jerking Sam from his contemplation. He didn’t mention what he had seen. He could barely process it. He was sure he had seen angels, burning out. It looked horrible.

 

“Yes, that is how I feel,” Cas said, cooly. He turned and started back towards the circle. “As you can imagine I’d like to get this over with.” 

 

They followed, Dean slightly shaky for the first few steps. He waved Sam away from him, muttering crossly about being fine. They stopped at the edge of the circle, while Cas daintily stepped over. He walked somewhat awkwardly over the mass of lines to the centre. All of the lines and sigils were connected, forming a complex map of shapes that coalesced into a final circular outline at the centre. This inner ring was around two feet wide, the inside just bare earth. His angel blade was laid at the centre of this circle. When he reached the centre, Cas flicked his hand upwards. Bright, white flames rose from the ring of holy oil, burning hotter than usual thanks to the graphite. He turned to face the brothers. Dean looked like he was attending a funeral. Sam was worried and slightly excited, though he was hiding it well.

 

“It’s important that no matter what, you don't cross the fire. It is the only thing protecting you. Even if you think it is all over, don’t. You would be vaporized,” he said solemnly, looking directly at Dean. He knew that if things did take a turn for the worse, he would probably try and throw himself over the fire anyway, no matter how dire the warnings. Sam nodded at him, subtly. At least Sam could be trusted not to accidently immolate himself, and likewise stop his brother from doing so.

Taking a deep breath, Castiel knelt on one knee in the inner circle. He took the angel blade and after inspecting it one last time, speared it into the ground in front of him. He held it in both hands, head bowed. He looked - angelic, for lack of a better word. Stripped to the waist he was no longer the holy tax accountant, but rather the very image of pious temperance. Like a soldier waiting to be knighted. 

 

The air pressure dropped suddenly, causing the same gasping sensation they had recently experienced in the barn. Outside, in the middle of the day, they could see the sudden, swirling formation of clouds. They boiled overhead, quickly turning from white to dark grey. Thunder boomed. Dean, who had been watching Cas like a hawk, jabbed his elbow into Sam, who was staring upwards at the sudden atmospheric change. Above the angel was an odd distortion, like heat haze. The world beyond it seemed warped and fractal. This increased steadily, slowly revealing two indistinct shapes above Cas’ bowed head. With a sudden shrill ringing noise that reminded Dean of angel’s voices, two large black arches seemed to cut through the sky. It was like someone had sliced through the world, revealing the dark abyss of the universe beyond it. 

 

Sam was sure that he could see the light freckling of stars and swirling galaxies in the blackness. Then slowly, as his eyes adjusted perhaps, he could see details begin to move forward into focus. No longer silhouettes, he could see how the great wings were folded behind the angel. As more details rose to the surface, Sam now realised he could see individual feathers, or feather-like shapes. The colours had changed too. Previously the flat, matte black of the endless nothingness of the universe, now they seemed prism-like. As if the darkness was shining through a lense. Small movements made ripples of colour slide over the surface of the feathers. His eyes flicked quickly over them, trying to take in as much detail as he could in one sitting. Some of the feathers had odd, mottled patches or white spots. Almost like the underside of a falcon’s wing. Individual feathers, and whole patches it seemed, were in bad condition. Their edges were rough and jagged, sparkling like broken glass. Some were completely white.

 

Cas had materialised his wings, folded tightly against his back. His grip on the angel blade tightened and he extended them slightly. At barely half extension, they had reached the edge of the circle, but the effect was immediate. Feelings of intense awe and fear shot through Sam and Dean, surprising them. The feelings seem to go straight to their legs, and only intense stubbornness on Dean's part stopped him from dropping to his knees. He stumbled slightly and swore under his breath. Sam, the more devout of the two, was unfortunately more susceptible to the feeling of divinity and hit the deck, hard. The pain in his knees seemed to snap him out of it, and he dragged himself to his feet, embarrassed.

 

The dark lines Cas had drawn in blood were glowing like embers. A low pulse seemed to vibrate through the ground. The holy fire roared higher, flames leaping  nearly five feet before receding. Cas’ skin glowed faintly, even under the light of day. He shivered. The angel blade in his hand glowed white hot. Another pulse, then another. Soon they were coming thick and fast, each one causing the fires in the circle to leap and dance. The smell of ozone laid thickly in the air. A loud shriek, like a small firework exploding, made the brothers jump. A white, cracked feather had exploded, shards shooting outwards. Several more followed. Castiel sagged, dropping to both knees. His hands on the angel blade loosened. Dean jumped forward, but Sam was already in motion, hooking his arms under his brother's shoulders.

 

“CAS! CAS! DON’T YOU FUCKIN DARE!” he shouted hoarsely over the crackle of bursting feathers. The ground was littered with crystal-like shards. He kicked vainly at Sam. 

 

Cas didn’t hear Dean shouting. He could hardly hear anything over the roar of fire. He wasn't even sure if it was his own or if it was the ring of holy fire. He was in agony; having a feather shatter was painful enough. To have several splinter at once was indescribable. Almost all of his power was gone. He could feel his vessel struggling to function as his energy drained away. He was ready to give up. He had taken one chance too many, left it too late. He tried to gather the last of his strength to look up, to say goodbye. To covet one last image of the people he cared about most in all creation before he burned into nothingness.

 

Every feather on his body jerked suddenly, vibrating with the force of prayer. He heard Dean and Sam’s shouts of Castiel! echo along each quill. His eyes blazed, his fire burned hotter. He roared in his true voice, dulled by the manifesting of his feathers.  _ Fuck. This. _

 

In a final burst, he felt the last of his energy disperse. He folded up, falling beside his angel blade, prepared to take a well deserved dirt nap, but before he even hit the ground, he knew that something was wrong. Angels in vessels control everything. Every basic function that a body can perform is micromanaged. This is because bodies and everything about them are alien and unnatural to them. Cas had relaxed into his vessel over time, slowly allowing it to function more and more as it was intended. Such as breathing. He didn't need to breathe and thus only breathed when he remembered he was supposed to. Dean had found this deeply disturbing, as did several humans who had picked up on it. So he had relented, allowing it to breathe on its own. However, for years, he had told its heart when to beat, because he could never really trust it to do it on its own. It would race and slow seemingly randomly, distracting him. And now it was really struggling to do it on its own. Irony is indeed cruel.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enochian Translation : Orocahe - [the] underneath
> 
>  
> 
> Add me on any platform, I do a lot of waiting around for lab work so I'm always available for some banter.
> 
> [ Quailpower on Tumblr ](https://quailpower.tumblr.com/) or on Discord @Quailpower#2270
> 
>  
> 
> Special thanks to my Beta [ Lexifer ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexifer/pseuds/Lexifer)


	6. Chapter 6

To say that Castiel felt confused would be a gross understatement. Instead of the usual peaceful feelings of being able to stretch out outside of his vessel that he often experienced when meditating, he felt foggy. And cramped. He shuffled his wings irritably. He was cold. His flames banked, barely flickering. The completely unnerving feeling of disconnection from his power itched at his wings, ran down his back and along the length of his tail. 

 

A hand clutched at his vessel, shaking him slightly. The sudden, terrifying realisation that he was in Fall and hopelessly vulnerable shocked him back towards consciousness. His thoughts were sluggish and he struggled to remember how to make his vessel obey. And it hurt. That wasn't right. His vessel shouldn't hurt unless he wanted to feel it. His feathers shivered under a prayer. Cas! You need to wake up! The voice sounded scared. And familiar. His mind said: Family. Protect. For a fraction of a second, his flames roared. It was enough. A thunderous boom sounded and there was a rush of blood.

 

He grabbed at the arm shaking him and twisted hard. He rolled, unseating his attacker, and kicked off the ground in an odd twisting motion to resume a semi-upright position. He snapped his wings open for balance and for the up-draught to lift him fully to his feet. Still holding on to the assailant, he dragged them into a half crouch, pinning the offending limb behind their back. He flicked downward with one wing, pressing the viciously sharp edge of one of his silver napta feathers to the creature’s throat. The warm wetness of blood pulsed on its edge. Not the shrill chime of grace, or the cold, prickling drone of demon blood. The fog was retreating from his consciousness, the white fading from his vision. Before him knelt Dean.

 

“Dean!” he gasped. Cas jerked his wing away from the hunter’s throat and folded them so tightly against his back that it hurt. 

 

Dean had twisted slightly in Cas’ hold, tilting his head up to face him. He was alarmed, but not afraid. He had seen the blank look behind the angel’s eyes, recognised the animalistic aggression as he was roused from unconsciousness. He had seen something he had never seen in Cas before. The raw, almost paralyzing fear of a wounded animal. It was a rare moment of openness, if not intentionally, from the usually guarded angel. It reminded him painfully, again, of Cas’ quiet confession after being speared by the Lance of Michael. Seeing Cas afraid for himself hurt. It conjured the memories of all the times he had treated Cas as an emotionless, fearless automation. How many times had he been afraid? Been hurt? 

 

Dean was pliant as the angel pulled him up to his feet, gingerly handling his quickly bruising arm. He was then pulled into a vice-like hug. Cas seemed to have learned from Bobby that a hug wasn't really a hug unless the other person was struggling to breathe. Usually he would pat Cas amiably on the back but there were two rather large black obstructions to that gesture. He settled instead on gently squeezing Cas’ upper arms before gently but forcefully pulling away. Dean could feel the guilt coming off his friend in waves.

 

“Dean, I’m sorry I-”

 

“Are you okay?” Dean asked firmly, hoping to cut through the self-loathing cycle. Cas had sounded wrecked. His wings twitched intermittently as if he was fighting the urge to extend them, and he was actually shivering slightly under Dean’s hands. He refused to meet Dean’s gaze, eyes fixed on the thin red line on his throat. Dean squeezed his arms slightly, hoping to ground the angel.

 

“Cas...Cas?” Dean ducked his head, bringing his eyes down to the level where Cas had been staring. “Come on man, you’re starting to freak me out. You okay?” His green eyes flicked nervously over every inch of the angel’s face. 

 

Cas blinked several times, seeming to come back to himself. His eyes seemed to focus for the first time since he had come around, pupils contracting quickly in the light. He cleared his throat. Dean withdrew his hands.

 

“I’m okay. I think I was dead for a few minutes, but I’m fine now.” He opened his mouth to apologise again, eyes drifting back to Dean’s neck. Dean shot him a look that said, in no uncertain terms, that any further apologies would be forcibly shoved back down his throat so far he would shit them out. Cas sighed. He winced as he rolled his shoulders experimentally, causing his wings to flex slightly. He noticed Sam, watching the two of them from outside the circle of fire. He ignored Sam’s look of concern and half-hidden, frantic gesturing at his brother. Dean seemed to be utilizing his usual tactic of disregarding information he didn't care for, saving the memory of how close Cas had come to death, yet again, for the early hours of the morning when he desperately wanted to sleep. Cas cocked his head and squinted at Dean.

 

“I definitely told you to stay outside the fire.” Cas eyed the still burning ring. Sam was glaring at his brother as he pinched his nose, head tipped back. There was a stream of blood running down his face and a few dark droplets on his shirt. He raised a hand in salute to Cas, muttering something that sounded like should have used a half-nelson. 

 

Dean, at least, had the good grace to appear embarrassed. He smiled amiably and raised his palms in apology. “Sorry, Sammy.” 

 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Can I put this out now? Or are you still an explosion risk?” he asked Cas, quirking his brows in good humour. 

 

Cas nodded. 

 

Sam stooped to scoop up the two bottles of water they had brought with them. With one hand still pinching his nose, he threw them underarm at his brother. Dean caught the one that sailed towards his face and winced as the other hit him square in the chest. He emptied both of them over a small section of the flames, extinguishing them in a wave.

 

“Are you ready to head back now, Cas?” Sam asked, somewhat nasally. 

 

Dean stifled a laugh behind his hand ineffectually, and the caustic glare Sam fixed on his brother would have taken the skin off a lesser man. 

 

Cas nodded again. He was holding himself rigidly and though his arms were crossed nonchalantly, the hands gripping his elbows were white. “Let me just grab something.” He padded over and knelt beside his angel blade. 

 

Sam and Dean watched with interest as he rested one hand on the hilt and made no move to pull it out. His other hand brushed at the dirt around it, almost reverently. Under the topsoil something white glittered in the sunlight. He finally removed the blade, holding it in his left hand loosely. Still tightly folded against his back, he curled his wings around him, resting the peaks against the white shape. Dean wasn't sure how Cas managed to manipulate the disk out of the soil with the blunt ‘elbows’ of his wings. He was sure however, that Cas using his wings like a second pair of hands was definitely weird. Cas dropped his blade and delicately took the sparkling object from his wings. It was an opalescent band, made from some kind of white crystal. It was irregularly shaped; spiked and fractal like the inside of a geode. Cas blew on it lightly and brushed at it with a feather. Dean watched the soft, fluffy edge of the feather dust dirt away from the crystal and rubbed at his neck, wondering how the feathers could be both soft and razor sharp.

 

Cas stood stiffly. He scooped up his discarded blade with the peak of his left wing, as if it was the most natural gesture for him. Sam noted that there was a small projection of silvery feathers on the underside of the peak of his wings. It was this projection that seemed to be tucked over the angel blade. He wondered if angel wings were similar in structure to bird wings, and if these could be winglets. Cas tucked his wings behind him tightly again, and crossed the charred ring without a second glance. He held the crystal ring in his cupped hands and presented it wordlessly to Sam. He took it cautiously, tilting it ever so slightly to inspect the many sharp edges.

 

“Be very, very careful with that,” Cas warned gravely. 

 

This only added to the natural anxiety that any man with large hands felt after being handed something delicate. “Is this. . . a halo?” Sam asked hesitantly. 

 

Dean snorted scornfully. 

 

Castiel gave him an appraising smile, and Sam beamed and made sure his brother could see the smug grin over Cas’ shoulder.

 

“Yes, Sam. Usually they are crafted. Angels charge select minerals with their energy, at great cost to themselves. Later they can be used as a weapon, to quickly release the stored power. This is a naturally formed one, so it is nowhere near as beautiful as a true halo, or anywhere near as strong.” 

 

Dean, who had become interested at the mention of weapons, eyed it critically. “So, what? You just launch it and it goes off like a bomb?”

 

“Yes, Dean. Any fracture to the crystal will make it disperse all of its energy.” 

 

Sam had quickly gone from excited to mild horror. He wondered if holding the halo was Cas’ idea of punishment for letting Dean throw himself over the fire. 

 

“Don't worry Sam, as long as you don’t look at it when it breaks, you’re safe. They’re only really of any use against demons. However, they are very rare, a good bargaining chip to have.”

 

They arrived back at the bunker with little difficulty. Cas had apparently not considered the size of his wings - even folded - in relation to the forest, when choosing his location. At one point he lost his footing and snapped his wings open to regain his balance. Sam swore and fell over, almost dropping the halo in the process. Dean managed to grab a tree to disguise his stumble, the extended wings inspiring the familiar jelly-knees feeling. This was quickly forgotten when they saw that three trees had been felled, the sharp edges of his feathers shearing through the wood with little resistance. 

 

Sam grumbled, pulling himself to his feet, and insisted on walking several paces behind them, holding the halo as if it were his firstborn. This left Dean alone with Cas. Cas didn't seem to be inclined to conversation, barely managing one word answers. Occasionally, he would mumble under his breath in Enochian. Dean wasn't sure what he was saying, but he assumed it was a curse. He repeatedly insisted he was fine, but Dean was sure that he was in some kind of pain or discomfort. He walked like a soldier on the parade ground, rigid and mechanical. If Dean got too close he would flinch, pulling his already compressed wings tighter against his body.

 

Once inside, Sam gently seated the halo on the kitchen table, deciding he would re-home it later when he was less sweaty and hungry. He washed his hands in the sink and accepted a beer from Dean after inspecting the clock dubiously.

 

“So, Cas. How about something healthy for dinner?” Over Cas’ shoulder he fixed Dean with a predatory look. Having additional guests at the Bunker was always a joy when it came to goading his brother about food.

 

“I’m afraid I won’t have much appetite today, Sam.”

 

“Uh, sure, Cas. Maybe tomorrow then,”

 

“Cas?” Dean peered at the angel from near the fridge. 

 

Cas’ refusal of both beer and food had set off warning bells. The small part of Dean that was invariably expecting to receive a good kicking from the universe came forward. He stared the angel down, unknowingly assuming a very motherly ‘you tell me everything right this instant, young man,’ look. 

 

Sam cringed; even being adjacent to The Look was enough to make him feel like a guilty child. Cas appeared to be considering fighting against this line of questioning, but he was apparently too tired to be evasive. He sighed and leaned against the door frame, taking care not to touch anything with his wings. The feathers ruffled, producing a high pitched peal, like a glass harp. The brothers both scrunched up their faces. The sound made their teeth itch.

 

“I have just grown an entire new set of bones, muscles and associated tissues,” he snapped, waving his hand dismissively towards his wings. “It is incredibly painful and feels disgusting. The whole thing is making me nauseated. I was going to go and see if I could sleep.”

 

Dean frowned, trying to imagine what growing new bones felt like, and decided that disgusting probably was an apt description. 

 

Sam rifled in a cupboard before marching over to the angel. He presented two orange pill canisters for inspection. “Take two,” he said, pointing to the first bottle, then regarded the large, feathery appendages. “Make that three. They should take the edge off. But you are going to need to have a coffee at least, unless you want stomach ulcers. These,” he shook the second jar for emphasis, “are antiemetics, because the painkillers might make you even more nauseous. Take one for now.” He pressed both canisters into Cas’ outstretched hand, then wandered back over to the table, noticing that Cas seemed to tense when he or Dean got too close to his wings. Probably a prudent reaction seeing as he could chop down trees without intending to. 

 

Dean, having already poured a coffee for the angel, pressed it into Cas’ hand. He smiled, silently advising that he would be inspecting the cup later, just to check that he drank it as instructed.

 

“Thank you, Sam, Dean,” Cas said softly. Without his power to amplify it, his mental mojo (as Dean called it) was significantly reduced. It was as innate to him as prayer; even if he were made human again he would retain it. It was second nature, therefore, to direct feelings of thankfulness and affection towards the brothers. If they were surprised, they didn't show it. He turned and wandered in the direction of the bedrooms.

 

Some time later, Dean stopped outside Cas’ room. It was nearly 7pm and the angel hadn't resurfaced. He wondered if he should let his friend sleep; after all, he had told Dean that the Fall was both mentally and physically exhausting. However, if he didn't take any more drugs, he was going to wake up to a metric fuck tonne of pain in the morning. Decision made, he knocked gently. No answer. Juggling the plate and cup he had brought with him, he managed to open the door with his elbow. 

 

Like Dean, Cas had chosen to the shift the bed into the middle of the room, while Sam preferred to have his backed up against a wall. He could barely see any of Castiel under the blanket of feathers. Laying on his side, one wing was curled over his body, hiding all but the bottom of his socked feet. The other wing, presumably tucked against his back to begin with, had extended off the bed and spilled across the floor. Dean crept around to the clear side, not wanting to accidentally tread on Cas’ feathers. He leaned down and slid the plate and steaming cup onto the bed-side table. 

 

Now that he was closer and was free to stare, he could see that the feathers didn't really look like feathers at all, which was strange because he had held one of Cas’ old feathers; it had the hard quill and soft fibers (which Sam had rather loftily told him was called the vane) of a normal feather. Perhaps they were different when they were still attached, like how the colour changed. They had the distinct feather shapes he was used to seeing on birds, but looked as though they were made of one solid material, like a fish scale. They refracted and reflected the light strangely, creating swirling patterns of colour not unlike oil. He reached out and pressed the pad of his finger carefully against the flat side of one, as he knew from experience that touching the edges would probably mean saying goodbye to his finger. It was warm and smooth like glass. When he pulled his hand away, the slight drag of his skin produced the same sound as a wet finger on the rim of a glass.

 

He straightened, feeling the muscles in his back snag and protest the motion. When calling the angel’s name failed to wake him, he proceeded to kick the mattress - with less joyful finesse than he would if attempting to rouse Sam. The reaction was instantaneous. Castiel went from horizontal to vertical without appearing to go through the state in between. The wing that had been behind him had flicked up and around, several of the short silver feathers at the arch held outwards like knives. Dean had been expecting this, and so it was with great care that he did not flinch or step back, even when the silver points had swung out within inches of his face. Dean Winchester was one of the few humans on earth that didn't jump when the toaster popped. It was a talent. Cas stared up at him sleepily.

 

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean beamed, ignoring the feathery death inches from his face. “Thought you could use some supper.” 

 

Cas squinted up at him for a second before withdrawing his wing and tucking them behind him loosely. He rubbed at his eyes. “Thank you, Dean.” He gestured to the bed and Dean sat obediently beside him. “I do feel slightly less awful now.” He huffed a laugh and helped himself to the coffee. They sat in amiable silence while he woke up, occasionally sipping the scorching liquid.

 

“We need to be careful until I can calm my feathers,” he pronounced, suddenly.

 

“Yeah they do seem slightly murder-y.”

 

“I’m being serious Dean, I could hurt you or Sam.”

 

“Don’t worry about it Cas. We all get jumpy sometimes. I mean, how many times have I nearly stabbed you when you’ve crept up on me?”

 

“I stopped counting. You’ve successfully stabbed me three times,” he said mirthlessly.

 

“Exactly! Four if you count the time I got your coat instead of you.” He shoved the angel good naturedly. 

 

Cas sighed and placed the cup on the table. He turned back to Dean and saw he was inspecting the curve of his wing with interest. Realising he had been caught, Dean grinned nervously.

 

“Do they stay all sharp and pointy until they fall out?” 

 

Cas seemed to contemplate his answer gravely, watching Dean closely. After several moments he had almost told the angel to forget he asked, when Cas spoke up.

 

“No. . . It’s a reflex. Our wings can be soft, but they are also a weapon and a shield. I can ‘relax’ them, so they are more like regular feathers. Otherwise they appear like this. It has always been easier for me to keep an edge on them. It’s probably the only reason I’m still alive. With practice I should be able to keep them in repose.”

 

“Cas, it’s fine. You don't need to force it for me and Sam. Do whatever is easier for you.” Dean’s voice was unyielding. He carefully inflexed each word, hoping to stress to Cas that it really wasn't an issue. What’s some shredded furniture and skin between Winchesters? He cupped Cas’ shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. He really was going to suffer without being able to slap Cas on the back, that was at least 20% of his vocabulary.

 

“I would prefer not to carve everything to pieces. Although I might be persuaded to ‘accidentally’ give Sam a haircut, for the right price of course,” Cas deadpanned, flexing his fingers to mime the air-quotes. 

 

Dean howled with laughter, caught completely by surprise by the angel’s humour. After he composed himself he saw that Cas had closed his eyes. He wondered if he should excuse himself, assuming his friend was still tired. Out of the corner of his eye he saw an odd ripple of motion. The feathers in Cas’ folded wings twitched, a wave rolling from the peak to the tip. As the wave passed, the sharp, flat edges of the feathers were replaced with the soft shape he was familiar with. 

 

He raised a hand to brush through the black plumes but stopped himself. If it was a defensive reflex, getting all grabby when Cas wasn't expecting it definitely wouldn't help matters. As he pulled his hand back, the dark curve of Cas’ wing extended and pressed against his still open palm. He curved his thumb around its broad edge and gently slid his hand down its length in one sweep. They were softer than he expected, softer than any feathers he had come across. But then again, he didn't make a habit of molesting wildfowl, so perhaps they were just like ordinary feathers. He removed his hand and the wing retreated, folding behind Castiel’s back. He opened his eyes and the strange wave motion washed over the feathers again as they resumed their sharp, crystal-like appearance. 

 

He gave Dean a small smile before yawning explosively. Dean laughed to himself at how surprised Cas seemed by the yawn. He rose, collecting the cup from earlier, with a barely disguised inspection of its contents. The empty cup apparently met his approval. He made his excuses, advised the angel to take additional medication and wished him goodnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A glass harp (also called musical glasses, singing glasses, angelic organ, verrilion or ghost fiddle) is a musical instrument made of upright wine glasses.  
> It is played by running moistened or chalked fingers around the rim of the glasses. Each glass is tuned to a different pitch, either by grinding each goblet to the specified pitch, in which case the tuning is invariable, or by filling the glass with water until the desired pitch is achieved.
> 
>  
> 
> Add me on any platform, I do a lot of waiting around for lab work so I'm always available for some banter.
> 
> Discord @Quailpower#2270
> 
>  
> 
> Quailpower on Tumblr 
> 
>  
> 
> susurruswant@gmail.com
> 
> Enochian Translation: Napta - Sword


	7. Chapter 7

Dean woke earlier than usual. He stalked through the library, barely acknowledging Sam. He was typing something on his laptop, far too noisily for nearly 10am, or so Dean thought. He walked through the control room, skirting around the map table to get to the kitchen. A flash of movement in his peripheral vision made him jump. Castiel was sat on the balcony above him. Or rather, he was perched on the balcony railing, completely oblivious to the nine foot drop below.

 

“Damnnit, Cas, get down from there! What are you, a fucking pigeon?!” 

 

Cas turned slightly, fixing the hunter with a confused look. 

 

Dean threw his hands in the air, exasperated. He retreated into the kitchen, muttering that it was far too early for this bullshit and that he definitely wouldn’t be taking Cas the ER if he broke something. This sentiment was slightly undermined when a loud crash and Sam’s swearing sounded from the control room. Dean skidded back out of the kitchen as fast as he could in socks along the tiled floor, panic apparent on his face.

 

From the door he saw Cas, wings fully extended, landing gracefully. The very image of angelic elegance. He fanned them gently once before folding them behind him. They shuffled around occasionally as he adjusted them for comfort. The crash had come from Sam, who had been walking through the room. He hadn’t seen the angel perched above him and had been caught completely unawares by the weak-kneed feeling that seemed to accompany his extended wings. Cas was already making his way towards the younger Winchester, looking concerned.

 

“Are you okay, Sam?” He held out a hand to help Sam up. “Dean told me to get down, and I didn't see you come in.” His tone and accusatory look towards Dean indicated that it was clearly his fault. Dean glared back at him, incredulous.

 

“I’m fine, thanks, Cas. Good job I wasn’t holding my laptop,” he laughed, smiling at the angel good-naturedly. He patted Cas gently on the shoulder when he still looked concerned.

 

“Here’s a thought, let’s not sit on the railings like some kind of angsty superhero,” Dean snapped icily. He fired one last glare at Cas before turning on his heel. “It’s too fucking early for this, I’m going to make breakfast.” The, ‘and I'm not coming back in, even if a bomb goes off and maims you both,’ was heavily implied. He stalked into the kitchen and could be heard swearing at small appliances. 

 

With a perfectly synchronised eyeroll, Sam and Cas strolled after him. They took seats on opposite sides of the kitchen table, watching Dean like faithful acolytes in a temple. Or volcanologists anxiously watching a seismograph.

 

Dean was making pancakes, aggressively. Sam was used to his brother’s food directed anger; Castiel however seemed genuinely fascinated that someone could beat eggs almost out of existence. He had enough self preservation instinct not to object when a plate of perfect, golden pancakes was slammed in front of him. One look at Sam told him that, no matter how long ago they had eaten breakfast, they would be eating all of the pancakes. With a smile to boot.  Cutlery was slapped down beside each plate as Dean carefully took his seat next to Sam. 

 

He scowled across the table at Cas, trying to silently provoke his friend. Cas seemed to be trying to play that, as an angel, he struggled to recognise the subtleties of human expressions and emotion. He was fooling no one, having been at the receiving end of the whole spectrum of Dean Winchester’s fifty shades of rage. Sam coughed and turned away from them to face the wall, wishing he could be as far away from the domestic shitstorm that was about to go down. He considered excusing himself on the grounds of illness, but one look at his brother’s face told him that wasn't going to work. That left him with the option of trying to keep things civil while he was stuck there. It might be harder than herding cats but it was worth a try.

 

“Hm. So, Cas. What's with the Bambi-on-ice effect from your wings?” His attempt at humour scored a solid zero from Dean, who continued to eat his breakfast silently. 

 

Cas delicately placed his cutlery on the side of his plate and took a small sip of his coffee, appearing to be organising his thoughts. Pop culture references may no longer present an issue, but the bank of information Metatron provided still required significant mental filtering to achieve a result.

 

“Previously, humans attributed it to being in the presence of the divine.” 

 

Dean laughed scornfully into his cup. 

 

Cas ignored him. “It’s actually a combination of pressure change and infrasound caused by quickly extending my wings.”

 

“Infrasound? Yeah, I’ve heard of that. There’s supposed to be a frequency that makes you feel intense fear, it’s what skeptics say is responsible for most ghost sightings,” Sam gushed, quickly slipping from survival mode to scholar, leaning over the table and giving Cas his full attention. 

 

The angel had smirked slightly at Sam’s comment, the corner of his mouth and brow lifting faintly, evidently indulging in a private joke. “And they are quite right, ironically. Most ghosts emit that frequency, although it can occur naturally, otherwise. The good news is that it should wear off after a few days. Once your brain gets used to the sound it should taper off until you don't even feel it anymore.”

 

“Hm. Okay. How come it affects me more than Dean?” 

 

Cas flicked his eyes to Dean, giving him a long look before shifting back to Sam. For his part, Dean had stared back, glassy eyed.

 

“It could be that Dean has managed to catch himself before he falls and is just lucky at this point. But it does affect everyone differently, so he could just be naturally resistant.” He stood up in one leisurely stretch. His wings mimicked this motion, flicking out slightly, before shuffling themselves, comfortably folded again. He scooped up the plates, offering a quiet thank you to Dean. 

 

They sat in a slightly defused, if not comfortable silence, while Castiel washed the plates, cutlery and skillet. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Cas pause in his task and close his eyes. The strange shiver-wave rolled across his wings and his feathers relaxed. Cas then continued diligently scrubbing the skillet. Dean elbowed Sam softly, discreetly pointing at the angel’s wings. He held a finger to his lips, looking at his brother meaningfully and wiggled his brows. In the Winchester sign language this meant: don’t make a big deal out of it, Cas is still jumpy, will fill you in later.

 

Cas returned to the table with the coffee pot. As he reached over to fill up their cups, his wing stretched out slightly so the long edge brushed along Dean’s shoulder. The elder Winchester raised his hand with elbow still on the table, letting his knuckles swipe along the soft plumes as Cas walked past. Neither Cas nor Dean acknowledged this gesture, although to Sam’s eye the feathers in Cas’ wings did seem fluffier all of a sudden. 

 

Perhaps it's because they were like actual feathers now, Sam thought.

 

“So, what’s everyone’s plan for the day?” Dean said, rubbing his hands together. 

 

Sam rumbled in his throat and flicked his eyes nervously around the table. “I’m heading into Kansas city, meeting up with some hunters. They’re open to the idea of support with cases, like Bobby used to. That way we can stay closer to home.” He pulled out his phone and started fiddling with it, before turning it to face the others. “And they’re going to circulate these pictures of Kelly along the hunter’s network. I haven't told them why we need to find her, though.” He relaxed. He wasn't sure that Dean would be okay with him meeting up with the local hunters alone, seeing as one of the last times they’d worked together they had both been shotgunned.

 

“I’ll get started translating those books for you, Sam. If you could fetch them for me. What about you, Dean?”

 

“Got some work to do on Baby. If you give me your keys, I’ll have a look at that misfire on your truck.” 

 

Cas nodded and rifled through his pocket. He performed the universal struggle of lifting, leaning and twisting, trying to extract any object from a front pocket while seated. After successfully fishing out the keys he slid them across the table. 

 

Dean quirked his brow. He realised that Cas had traded in his suit pants for some dark jeans. This was odd; he wasn't sure why it was odd but it definitely was. It was probably just his hunter's instincts; after all, pattern recognition is key to survival on the job. Seeing Cas in different clothes, when he had looked the same for a decade, was bound to confuse him when you looked at it logically. And the damned idiot was still shirtless, like a damned Hugo Boss commercial. Although, now that he thought about it, there's no way he's getting a shirt over those wings. 

 

He made a mental note to go and crank up the furnace. If Cas was going to walk around shirtless indefinitely, the ambient temperature of their underground home was going to have to increase.  He took a long drink of his coffee to disguise the fact that he had completely checked out of the conversation at the table. Hopefully Sam and Cas just thought it was too early for him to process. On cue Sam waved his hand in front of Dean’s face.

 

“Hello, Earth to Dean! Cas and I are going to get set up in the library, I’ll come and check in before I leave. Might as well get some groceries on the way back, so make a list.” Sam gave his back a hearty slap as he extracted himself from the table. Dean mumbled assurances into his mug and watched them as they traipsed out.

Sam Winchester was a kind, emotionally sensitive man. Something that often surprised people who only saw his large, intimidating frame. It was very easy for him to put himself in another person's shoes. Castiel, for all his outward appearance, was not a person and this presented a problem. Sam had gotten better at reading the angel over the years, but was happy to acknowledge that Dean was his superior in this regard. Cas had called it a profound bond, but wouldn’t explain what that meant. If Dean knew, he wasn’t telling.

 

Something was clearly bothering Cas and he had no clue what it was. He had already visited Dean in the garage once, to get the scoop on Cas’ now fluffy wings. Going back and returning with Dean would be too obvious, and could easily disrupt their uneasy domestic bliss. Cas was already in a bad mood because Sam had insisted that his translations be digitised, meaning that the angel had to either type (painfully slow) or use the talk-to-text software Sam had installed on his phone. He had elected to use the talk to text and was now holding the phone in one hand and the cracked leather volume of 16th Century Serbian folklore in the other. 

 

After spending the first hour fidgeting in his chair, Cas had now decided to walk back and forth along the length of the library. He would start and stop randomly and constantly shuffled his wings. Every now and then, from the corner of his eye, Sam would see Cas’ feathers shift from soft to sharp. This would usually be accompanied by an angry sigh from the angel, and quiet for a few blessed minutes while he willed them to relax again. And just when Sam thought he had successfully tuned out Castiel, his feathers would make that shrill, crystal sound that made his teeth ache. All things considered, Cas’ soft diction was probably the only thing not driving him to distraction. 

 

Sam shut his laptop, slightly harder than he intended. “Cas?”

 

“Hm?” He didn’t look up from the text, or even stop walking. Step, step, pause, step.

 

“Are you alright? You’ve been pacing and twitching for hours.” He spoke with careful emphasis to stop the irritation from leaching into his words. 

 

Cas stilled finally and looked up, watching Sam owlishly. He shuffled his wings for the hundredth time, pulling them closer to him. “Its . . . Does it ever bother you, being underground?” 

 

Sam considered this, carefully. “No. Not really, I mean, the lack of windows really messes with your circadian rhythms and it can feel a little stuffy at times, but I’ve spent most of my life living in cars and hotel rooms.” He gave Cas one of his best sympathetic smiles. “I didn't think. It must feel really unnatural for you,” he said sincerely. 

 

Cas sagged a little, seemingly relieved that Sam wasn't upset at the slight on his home.

 

“Yes. It never really bothered me before, but knowing I’m going to be here for a while just makes it feel . . . claustrophobic.” 

 

Sam drummed his fingers on the table, then stood abruptly. “Come on, there’s something on the upper floors I think will help.” Sam beamed and waved his hand enthusiastically. He took the book from Cas’ unresisting hands, carefully marking the page with a piece of paper and dropped it on the table. He strode off towards the back stairways, Cas following him, obedient but dubious. 

 

They passed through several floors of windowless, dusty rooms. On the top floor, Sam stopped in front of an unremarkable shelving unit. He smiled conspiratorially at the angel before yanking it forward. It swung inward, not unlike the shelves that hid the demon trap in the dungeon. There was little space beyond the shelving, a few feet at most. A dim, red light lit the exposed brickwork. Sam squoze himself into the narrow corridor and waved his arm again for Cas to follow. Cas reluctantly shuffled after him, wondering how squashing himself into a corridor that might as well be a priest-hole was going to help his claustrophobic feeling. After a few feet of alternately walking into Sam's back and catching his feathers on the bricks, the corridor ended. A thick steel ladder was fixed to the wall. Above them was a large iron hatch, with a circular wheel. Sam climbed up a few rungs and twisted it with one hand. There was a series of metallic thunks before the wheel stopped. Sam took another step and pushed the hatch outwards, revealing the bright glare of sunlight. He disappeared through the hole. Cas climbed the ladder nimbly, pressing his wings tightly to him to fit through the opening.

 

The escape hatch opened onto the roof of the bunker, at least forty feet from road level and unreachable. Sam opened his arms as if to say Voila! Cas wandered over to the edge and looked down. The wind against the building rushed up past him and tugged at his feathers. He extended his wings slowly, almost hesitantly. They quivered as the air curled around them, pulling them to and fro. Sam was immediately thankful Cas seemed to be taking care not to generate the treacherous infrasound while they were up on the roof. The angel closed his eyes and stood perfectly still. He barely seemed to be breathing, the only movement the minute fluttering of his feathers. His features smoothed and a smile teased at the corners of his mouth. 

 

Sam checked the time on his phone. He would need to set off in the next hour. He cleared his throat, somewhat reluctant to disturb the angel. “Cas? I’m going to head off in a minute, do you need anything?”

 

“No, thank you, Sam.” He turned to beam at his friend, the wind now dragging one wing higher than the other before he could bank it.

 

“Okay, well, just be careful with the hatch. There's no handle on the outside and it’s connected to the lockdown system. If someone uses the key in the front door, the deadbolts engage here, just like in the garage. You’ll be locked out. And if Dean asks-”

 

“You told me not to come up here alone or sit on the edge?” he said seriously, face carefully blank.

 

“Yeah, pretty much,” Sam laughed. He lingered for a moment, fiddling with his sleeve. “I haven’t told Dean, but Mom’s going to be at this meet. He’s still really angry with her. He just walks out the room when I bring her up.” The words came out in a rush, and had obviously been weighing heavily on Sam's mind. 

 

Cas looked at him sadly. He was sure that Dean would have forgiven his mother a lot faster if anyone other than himself had been injured. With the exception of Sam, obviously.

 

“I’ll have a word with him.”

 

“Thanks, Cas.” Sam flashed him a little, sad smile that made the angel’s heart twinge. 

 

Without thinking, be reached out with his wing and curled it around him, gripping his shoulder tightly with the feathery digits concealed at the peak. Much to his relief, Sam seemed genuinely cheered and pleased with the gesture. He raised his hand to rub the feathers hooked on his shoulder.

 

“Woah, I knew it!” he laughed slightly, embarrassed by his enthusiasm. “These silver feathers, they’re little alulas? Like birds have? And that’s how you can hold things with them?” He looked at Cas nervously, wanting to inspect them closer.

 

“Yes, although they are nowhere near as dexterous as hands.” 

 

He smiled and nodded encouragingly, bemused but nevertheless flattered by Sam's obvious fascination. In his experiences, humans found angel wings either terrifying or rapturous. Sam and Dean's nonchalant interest was pleasantly surprising. He had expected a jaded indifference or outright revulsion because of their strangeness. He let his wing go slack, allowing Sam to manipulate each of the joints softly. He frequently stopped to look at Cas, to check that he wasn't causing any pain and the angel hadn't gotten bored with his fiddling. Cas stood patiently, exuding polite benevolence. Clearly Sam had been dying to investigate, but hadn't wanted to be rude.

 

“We call them napta feathers, it means sword. We use them to make angel blades.” He flexed, fanning the silvery feathers out. There was a barely audible peal and the silver feathers reverted to their flat, sharp state, while the surrounding black feathers remained unchanged. 

 

Sam ooohed appreciatively. He peppered Cas with questions, absently carding the feathers. Eventually his phone began to ring. It was Dean, reminding him that he should have left by now. He carefully repeated the list his brother was dictating to him, and alluded that he and Cas were looking for a book in the upper storage rooms. Cas smirked and gave him a thumbs up. Dean suspiciously queried Sam further but hung up grumpily when Sam questioned the quantities of alcohol requested on the earlier list.

 

“You sure you don’t want anything from the store?”

 

“Actually, Sam. Before you go could you lend me a hand? One of my feathers is loose but I can’t quite reach it. Honestly, I don't know why humans evolved elbows that only bend one way.” 

 

Sam let go of Cas’ wing, allowing him to turn and present the back of the opposite one. 

 

“It should be around here, one of the longer ones. It has some large white bands on it. The damaged ones always fall out first.” He pointed helpfully over his shoulder. 

 

Sam found the feather with relative ease. It was very close to Cas’ back and would no doubt have required some gymnast level flexing for Cas to reach it. Sam gingerly pulled on the plume, hoping it wouldn't hurt. Cas watched him impassively, showing no discomfort as it slid out. Sam held up the feather. It had several large white bands on it, making it look like a magpie feather. As he watched, the black areas began to fade. After several seconds it was reduced to a glittering white.

 

“Thank you, Sam.” Cas gently took the feather from him. 

 

The hunter carefully lowered himself onto the ladder and started to descend. He waved goodbye and hollered over to the angel. “Want me to tell mom you said hi?” 

 

Cas stared at him for a second, confused. Then, deciphering the meaning behind Sam’s question, he nodded. “Yes, and while you're there you could have a look at her phone plan for her. She keeps going over her limit.” He shrugged off Sam’s look of utter confusion “What? We text each other. I like texting.” He stared Sam down, daring him to try and take it away from him. Castiel might not be a millennial in today's terms but he was in the traditional sense. In fact, he had been alive for all the millennia, he was a multiple millennial. So he was quite confident that he was allowed to enjoy texting. 

 

Sam laughed as he disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Add me on any platform, I do a lot of waiting around for lab work so I'm always available for some banter.
> 
> Discord @Quailpower#2270
> 
>  
> 
> Quailpower on Tumblr 
> 
>  
> 
> susurruswant@gmail.com


	8. Chapter 8

“I’m telling you Sam, something’s up.” 

 

Sam sighed and gave him a long-suffering look. He had seen his brother tear himself apart with worry before, usually when things were going well for them. Perhaps it was a result of their upbringing, the constant high stress of being a de-facto parent had short circuited his ability to be content. And while he was sympathetic, that didn't mean he wasn't sick to death of Dean lashing out when he got himself tied up in knots - all the while maintaining a facade of not caring. Whenever he had brought it up over the last few days, Dean had been unable to describe how he knew there was something off with Cas. And this only seemed to frustrate Dean more. It had gotten so bad that Sam had conducted a series of small, discrete tests to check that Cas was indeed Cas, and not anyone (up to and including Lucifer himself) hoping to gaslight his brother into insanity. Stranger things had happened.

 

“Maybe you just need to take some time, get out of the bunker for a little while,” Sam said in his most soothing, concerned voice. He squinted slightly, trying to resist the urge to roll his eyes when his brother waved this off.

 

“No. Not going to happen. I-”

 

“Have I ever told you how loudly you talk, both of you?! Have you even heard of indoor voices? I was hoping to get some peace while I was powered down, but I can still hear you across the building,” Castiel hissed, brushing past the pair of them and sinking into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. He slumped forward, head cushioned on his arms like someone nursing a hangover. 

 

Dean and Sam exchanged looks, not daring to move. Sam quirked his brows at Dean. 

 

A single, sad, slightly hysterical laugh rose from the table. “Ah! You even THINK loudly,” he mumbled against the formica. 

 

After a moments deliberation Sam moved first. He took a cup from the draining board and filled it from the coffee pot. He placed it gently on the table beside Cas’ folded arms and sat down. He laced his fingers together and closed his eyes. He then set about the mindfulness routine he practiced, quieting his racing thoughts. When Dean didn't join them at the table, he opened his eyes and glared. Few can deliver a glare like Sam when he wanted to. Precise, localised fury that could melt steel beams. Caught off guard, Dean found himself slinking into the chair next to Cas and looking slightly hurt. 

 

Apparently this was not enough. Sam’s glare did not lessen. Dean reached out hesitantly. His usual language of slaps and grabs across shoulders and arms had been slowly replaced over the last two days by gently batting or brushing his hand over Cas’ wings. However, he always made sure to do this within Cas’ eyeline to prevent an accidental startled sharpening of the feathers. Although Cas had assured him that wings were definitely not a no-no-place, he wanted to make sure he wasn’t inadvertently doing something wrong. As Cas was currently face down and seemed to show no sign of surfacing, this left him with the option of an unexpected (and possibly unwelcome) pat or to try and find some skin to poke at. Cas’ wings were folded low on his back, one sharp arch looming over the table. And although the right seemed to have started out that way, it was in the process of slowly sliding off the angel’s back. It had come to rest on the table next to Cas’ head, obscuring much of his side and shoulder. The feathers spilled off the table and curved away on the floor. In the lightest of touches, Dean let his fingertips rest against the dark peak on the table. He breathed a sigh of relief that Cas hadn't flinched and removed his fingertips.

 

“Cas? You okay buddy?” Dean asked in a tone that was decidedly too cheerful for the angel. 

 

Cas rumbled something that sounded like, ‘should have stepped on that damn fish, would have been less of a headache.’ He didn't seem to be replying to the hunter and instead was mumbling either to the table or himself. 

 

For the third time in as many minutes, the brothers exchanged concerned, slightly confused looks. As his friend didn’t seem to be at any immediate peril, Dean did manage to shelve his concern for a moment to revel in his incredible deductive skills. He was in the middle of a lengthy, silent, rant directed at his brother which could be summarised as ‘Dean Winchester is a genius and is always right,’ when Cas’ wing flopped off the table. It had continued its slow, downward trajectory unnoticed for several minutes before the arch had rolled off the smooth wood. There was a loud bang and a shrill shriek as it crashed against the tiles and instantly sharpened. This caused Cas to sit bolt upright, looking dazed. He pulled the offending wing back against him and shuffled them restlessly, completely ignoring the deep gouges he had chiselled into the plaster and tiles. He sighed wearily and propped his chin up with his hand.

 

“Didn’t sleep,” he breathed, voice rough. 

 

Sam looked on, sympathy etched onto his features. He nudged the little cup of coffee closer and the angel took it with a grateful nod. Dean watched him with interest as he sipped at the coffee without his usual appreciation. Sam had now taken the opportunity to subtly raise his eyebrows at his brother. Conveying without saying anything that yes, Dean truly was a Sherlock to Sam’s Holmes. 

 

Needled, Dean pushed himself to his feet. He slapped the tabletop, making the other two wince. “I know what will turn that frown upside down, breakfast bagels.” He grinned.

 

“It’s the middle of the day,” Cas rasped.

 

“And you literally just ate lunch.”

 

“Is that a no?” 

 

Sam rolled his eyes, indicating that, no, he did not want breakfast/midday bagels. 

 

When Castiel did not object, Dean clapped his hands and set about creating his culinary masterpiece. He smirked at his brother, adding a point to their ongoing contest over the angel’s palette. When Dean turned to retrieve several items from the fridge, Sam looked at his friend questioningly, slightly betrayed. Clearly he had thought that Cas was on Team Cardiovascular Health. 

 

Cas shrugged and flicked his hand, rather succinctly indicating that while the food was neither here nor there, it made Dean happy to mother. Sam snorted, quickly covering the twitch of his mouth with his hand when Dean looked over. Cas maintained a look of complete innocence, which only made Sam crack up more. The elder Winchester watched them suspiciously for a few moments as he prodded at the bacon.

Castiel sat with his head in his hands. Not for the first time, he wondered if it would have been easier to just burn out somewhere secluded. He had been through a Fall at least twice or more, per decade, since time began. And while it was never pleasant, it was a metaphorical walk in the park compared to this. He thought this might be why Falling in a vessel was so rare. Everything hurt. And as someone who knew his body down to a molecular level, and could identify individual nerves, he did not think that was a gross overestimation. 

 

A large majority of the pain was centered around his wings. As an ethereal creature he didn't have a skeleton or musculature to worry about, and so to manifest his wings, he’d had to build one. Externally they looked much as they usually did, it was everything inside that was causing a problem. The human body was not built with the large weight of wings in mind. This was not a unique situation in itself; any angel who had manifested their wings would be aware of the physical toll. Angels who were invesseled would perform a series of exercises to attune them to the physical form. This also worked to maintain the vessel physically, and while the angel could do so with their will alone, it was thought to be more respectful to devote time and energy to do so. An extended form was used for angels who had manifested their wings, designed to maintain both body and wings. It had been a long time since Cas had manifested his wings, but his memory was perfect in that regard. He might have been a thorn in Heaven's side and lost countless memories as a result, but some knowledge was innate. Although Cas might be a poor example of his species, as he was often reminded, he was devout in his own way. Everyday, or sometimes more if he needed to think, he performed the Acocasb Samvelg. The time to the righteous. The vessel might be his own, but he still made sure to devote himself to it. He was thankful. He appreciated the cost that had been levied against others for it.

 

The problem was, he was tired. Too tired to perform the intense motions and cycle of moves. He had not slept since the first day, not properly anyway. He thought he might have passed out for a few hours here and there, as there was definitely some time he couldn't account for. That in itself was a terrifying novelty. It reminded him of the times with Naomi. It was a horrible cycle; he was too tired to perform the exercises, and in turn that made his muscles and tendons ache more. The pain and anxiety kept him awake, making him even more tired. Then he had started passing out and that only made the anxiety worse, as well as the pain, as it was never in a comfortable position. 

 

Cas knew that a human body couldn't be maintained in this way and was sure that unless a solution presented itself, he could very well kill his vessel, and by extension at this moment in time, himself. Surprisingly, this knowledge did not assist him in his pursuit of sleep. 

 

He wanted to ask Sam and Dean for help, but he didn't know how to broach the subject. They both seemed to be walking on eggshells around him. He knew that over the previous days he had been short tempered and antagonistic, but couldn't seem to stop himself. Eventually Sam had stopped pestering him with questions and barely attempted conversation. Dean seemed to pick up on this as well and kept conversations to a minimum. Unlike Sam however, who was avoiding him, Dean seemed to be making it his personal mission to be within ten feet of the angel at all times. He would disappear for short periods when Cas was getting annoyed with him, but he always returned. Often, he would reach out and comb at Cas’ feathers, straightening them absently. Cas was very grateful of these small gestures, as they helped to ease the itch and the ache in his wings.

 

Dean was currently stood behind the angel tutting and uttering small complaints under his breath, in good humour, as he brushed at Cas’ wings. He had tried offering some small conversation, but could see Cas wasn't up to it. This was added to his internal tally, which was quickly snowballing into something intervention worthy. Instead he had spent nearly thirty minutes trying to straighten a tangle of feathers. 

 

Cas would not tell him how said feathers had become such a thicket. It absolutely had not happened because Cas had gotten a text notification while squeezing himself into the tiny brick corridor to the roof. He might not have the energy to exercise, but Cas was endlessly practicing keeping his feathers relaxed. A large part of his waking nightmares centred around the damage he might do to Sam and Dean with his wings. He could still see the thin, pink line on Dean's throat. Now, usually the low sound of an incoming text wouldn't produce a sharpening. Although the toaster had earlier when he zoned out at the table, causing Dean to fall off his chair laughing. The low bark of laughter from Cas had surprised the both of them. Probably as a result of this, Dean had changed his text alert to what he now recognised as the screaming goat sound. Cas had managed to keep his feathers edgeless, but still jerked his wings out reflexively. The soft plumes had snagged on the brickwork and it had taken several long minutes of struggles before he extricated himself.

 

He had been slightly angry with the elder Winchester and was about to give him a vitriolic speech about the sanctity of ones devices, when Dean had come over. He had absently ran his knuckles along one of Cas wings in passing and stopped when they snagged. He then started to wordlessly comb the feathers straight, causing Cas to quickly swallow his anger. Cas was sitting straight backed and maintaining the appearance of reading. It was currently taking all of his willpower not to flop onto the table sleepily. 

 

Behind him, Dean laughed. “I could do with getting Sam in here, so you can be mad at him.” 

 

Cas turned his head to look over his shoulder, brows raised in question. 

 

Dean smiled, somewhat shyly. “It would be easier to comb out this mess if you were pissed, you pull all your feathers down tight. These are all just poofy everywhere,” he said, and laughed a little as he pressed down a small patch of plumes, only to have them bounce back.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Nah, don’t worry about it, man.” He paused, wetting his lip nervously. “It means you feel calm. . . or happy?”

 

“Or happy,” Cas said softly, eyeing his friend appraisingly. “You always surprise me, Dean. You are very astute. You have a remarkable mind and yet you maintain that you are some dumb soldier putting one foot in front of the other.” 

 

The elder Winchester shrugged and flapped his hand at the angel, clearly disbelieving. His eyes were downcast, focusing intently on Cas’ feathers. The tips of his ears had reddened. He cleared his throat a few times, before returning Cas’ stare with a forced grin.

 

“Wow, you really are feeling better, Mr Compliments. I should ask you about my singing before the moment passes,” he laughed in a self deprecating way, flicking his eyes down from the angel’s sad stare. He continued combing feathers silently. Twice, he leaned up to pass Cas a feather that had come loose. Both of these were mostly black, with a light dusting of white spots, indicating they were only slightly damaged. Dean could feel Cas watching him. As usual the angel seemed to be oddly hurt by his self loathing. Well the one thing Dean Winchester didn't need was extra pity.

 

“So this, talking with wings thing you mentioned, is it like body language?” Dean asked hesitantly. He realised, with some apprehension that similar questions had quickly ended Cas’ amenable mood yesterday. Cas’ feathers remained fluffy under his hands; that was a good sign. He breathed a little easier.

 

“Yes, in a way. Position and posture of wings and gestures is much like body language.” He paused, as if considering this for the first time. “It’s . . .  instinctive, much as it is with humans I’ve noticed. But, what I actually meant is that, an angel's voice, as you know it, is produced by their wings,” he continued rather dully, selecting one of the removed feathers and inspecting it closely.

 

“So, what? When you speak, you're just shaking your feathers around? What does your actual voice sound like then?”

 

“That is my actual voice, Dean. Each feather sounds different, they can create a much greater range of sound than vocal chords. And besides, angel's don't have mouths, how else would we speak?” Cas snapped waspishly. He returned the feather to the table with a slap.

 

“Angels don't have mouths?! Of course they fucking don't, how could I not know that?” The scorn dripping from his words seemed to shock Cas. He glowered past the angel. Dean knelt to disentangle the last few difficult feathers. It was a great testament to his self control that although he was visibly angry, his hands were no less gentle. 

 

Cas realised too late that he had spoken harshly. He chewed his lip, craning to watch the hunter over his shoulder. He was meticulously straightening feathers, ensuring all the vanes were neatly pressed together.

 

“I’m sorry, Dean. You're right, of course. You couldn't have known,” he said softly. 

 

Dean didn't look at him. 

 

“I was being an ass.”  

 

That did it. The corner of Dean’s mouth quirked in a smile. Cas practically never swore, and he took always took great joy hearing it.

 

Sam wandered through library on his way to the kitchen. It was relatively early, a little after 9pm. He had recently read several scientific journals disputing the theory that eating after 8pm was an anathema to health. And so it was with great satisfaction that he was going to fix himself a late night snack. He had been watching a series of documentaries on serial killers in his room. Dean and Cas both seemed confused by the concept when he had offered to watch it with them. 

 

Dean seemed to have also retired to his room but it was difficult to miss Castiel’s presence in the library. Several books were stacked neatly on the table with his phone next to them, indicating he had been doing some translating for Sam. He also noted, with interest, a few notebooks that the angel had been using. Sam had peeked at them surreptitiously, and although they seemed to be composed mostly of Enochian and Malachim characters with odd sigils and symbols thrown in, it looked like utter gibberish to him. Cas himself was still seated at the table but had fallen asleep, head cradled in his elbow. As he had been doing the last few days, the chair was turned around so it's back faced the table. This left room for the angel’s wings to fold comfortably behind him. Or presumably, that is where they had started. Sam gave his brother credit for deciphering a large portion of Cas’ wing ‘body language’. Although even he had picked up on this particular one; when Cas was tired his wings sagged lower and lower until they came to rest against an obstacle. In this case, the floor. Both were hanging loosely behind him, the long edges resting on the wood and crossing over each other.

 

As he passed, the gentle shuffle of his feet seemed to rouse the angel slightly. His left wing twitched then slowly rose to hook over Cas’ head. Sam froze for a few minutes, not wanting to wake him fully. He smiled; he had been subtly reading up on bird anatomy to see how it might compare to Cas’. Subtly, because Cas had reacted very poorly to Dean’s jibe about nesting. Despite Cas’ irate insistence that angels had very little in common with birds, Sam certainly noticed similarities. That he kept to himself, of course. Watching Cas shroud his head under a wing reminded him of sleeping ducks.  

 

Some of the worry he had been holding onto dispersed. He was glad Cas had finally managed to sleep, it genuinely seemed to be a struggle for him. Not surprising considering his species did not sleep, usually. Seeing Cas struggle to adapt to his new temporary status quo wasn't easy. He wanted to help but everything he did somehow ended up making Cas cranky. He had tried his best to be graceful and forgiving of Cas’ foul temper, today particularly.

 

Sam placed the cup of green tea down on his bedside table next to the small bowl of fruit salad. He paused, then padded back down the hall. After a small scuffle in the linen cupboard, he managed to remove one of the soft grey blankets. Sweeping silently back into the library, he stopped next to the sleeping Cas. He had turned most of the lights down on his way to his room. In the half light, the dark shadows under Cas’ eyes seemed more pronounced. His face had the same drawn features and pallor as a med student before midterms. He carefully stretched out his arms, hoping to throw the blanket over Cas in one motion. As soon as it touched the angel, he knew he had made a mistake.

 

The shrill, crystalline sound that he associated with Cas’ sharp feathers, much louder than usual, was his only warning. Without his hunter's instincts, he could have been killed. In one motion Cas had thrown himself to his feet, curling one wing around to protect himself and lashing out with the other. Sam dived backwards, throwing up his arms to protect himself, somehow avoiding the vicious napta feathers. He wasn't lucky enough to dodge all the dark, black feathers that followed in the upward sweep. They bit deep into the flesh of his forearm. He hit the ground heavily but quickly clamped his hand down over the wound, hoping to stem the flow of blood.

 

“Sam?!” Cas snapped his wings back before Sam had even hit the ground. 

 

The warmth of blood, human blood, on his feathers had jolted him awake.  He dropped to his knees on the floor with Sam. To his credit, Sam did not flinch away when Cas reached out, instinctively, ready to heal. Realisation hit him and he froze. He looked distraught and slightly haunted, as if he couldn't believe what was happening was real this time. Footsteps thundered into the silent library. Dean skidded over to Sam, dropping to his knees heavily.

 

“M’fine, just a cut. ‘S’ok Cas. Not your fault,” Sam said stiffly, desperate to downplay any real pain. Dean threw a quick glance at Cas but was already pulling off his overshirt. He wadded it, holding it out to press to the wound when Sam lifted his hand. He twisted the sleeves and used them to bind it tightly.

 

“That looked deep. Come on, medbay,” he grunted. He slapped Sam on the opposite shoulder and stood, grabbing his uninjured forearm and pulling him to his feet. As Sam disappeared down the hall, he knelt in front of Cas.

 

“Cas?” 

 

The angel flinched and turned to hide his face. 

 

Dean sighed, already knowing what was going through Cas’ head. He reached forward, gently and slowly taking hold of the other man's arms. He tugged, feeling little resistance as he pulled Cas to his feet. “Come on, up we get. Don't beat yourself up, man.” 

 

He smiled, letting one hand slide up to Cas’ shoulder. He squeezed it affectionately. “Like Sam said, not your fault. Now, go get yourself a drink, I'll come over when I've seen to Sam.” He spoke carefully, softly, but with absolute authority. The tone often used by parents which added a silent, ‘or else’ to the end of every instruction. 

 

He watched his friend anxiously. Cas’ eyes seemed oddly glassy and out of focus. He let his hand fall from the angel’s shoulder and turned to follow his brother. A slight tug reminded him that he still had his left hand wrapped around Cas’ wrist.  He let it slide until it caught on Cas’ curled fingers. He gave them a reassuring squeeze. As he walked away he threw a look over his shoulder, telling the angel in no uncertain terms that absconding in a fit of guilt would not be tolerated. 

 

Castiel nodded once, then turned away.

Dean carefully sluiced Sam's wound with saline and frowned. The amount of blood was unusual. He grabbed a length of rubber tubing and tied it tightly around Sam’s upper arm. Content that his brother wasn't going to bleed to death he continued rinsing. Once the water had reduced to a dark pink and he could actually see the wound, he stopped. 

 

He delicately prodded the skin with his gloved hands. He whistled.  He patted the skin dry with some gauze, hands moving with practiced ease. “That hurt?” he queried as the silence stretched out.

 

“Now that you mention it, not as much as I was expecting,” Sam said, with some surprise. 

 

Dean hummed, as if he had been expecting that. “It looks like it was done with a scalpel. And it's damn deep too.” He hadn’t tried to probe the wound, knowing he had seen bone while washing it. There was a chance, with that amount of blood, that it had cut into the bone. 

 

They looked at each other for a long moment, considering. Short of actual death, this was one of the biggest dangers to hunters. An injury that, while not fatal itself, could severely affect their chances of coming out of future hunts alive. With a gash like this, Sam could lose the use of his hand, his dominant hand. Soft tissue injuries could end a hunter.

 

“Can you move your fingers?” 

 

Sam grimaced as he clenched and unclenched his hand. Dean watched his hand like a hawk, particularly his ring and pinky fingers. They hadn't been able to bend inwards like his other digits, barely flexing. He cleared his throat.

 

“Yep. That's going to be an ER job.” 

 

He turned and selected a film of paper sutures. Going to the ER was no small decision. While he was confident their fraudulent health insurance would hold up, every visit could end up in a police cruiser. Cas was out of commission for an unknown period of time. Any number of calamities could crop up in the meantime, and they simply couldn't risk having Sam benched too. Ignoring Sam's half-hearted protests, he continued placing the small strips along the wound to hold it closed. He placed a thick pad of gauze on top, then carefully wrapped it. Finishing up with a small piece of tape, he inspected his handiwork. Perfect, a veritable work of art. 

 

That just left the hospital visit itself to be dealt with. He fiddled with his gloves, mind racing. His instincts to protect both Sam and Cas pulled in opposition. He didn't like the thought of Sam driving alone to the hospital with a wound that could start bleeding heavily at any moment. But at the same time, he had seen the oddly dissociated look on Cas’ face as he’d walked away.

 

“I'll drive over now, you should stay with Cas,” Sam said matter-of-factly. He had been watching his brother rearrange the items in the supply trolley for several minutes and realised what must have been playing on his mind. 

 

Dean let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, pretending to think about it. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. I’m worried about him,” he said sadly.

 

Dean watched Sam pull out of the garage in Cas’ truck and fidgeted as the heavy door clanked closed far too slowly for his liking. Sam hadn’t even asked to take Baby, he had just climbed up into the truck and waved for his brother to flick the mechanism. The angel blade he was holding beat out a staccato rhythm on the wall as he watched the door roll closed. With a final loud clunk the garage door was sealed closed. He smashed the lever of the locking mechanism closed with the hilt of the blade. He threw the blade towards the odd umbrella-stand of weapons next to the door and strode out without a backwards glance.

 

Cas wasn't in the library, but the blood splatter on the wood had been cleaned; surely that was a good sign. He swept through the control room and the kitchen. Still no sign of Cas. He checked Cas’ room, then he checked all the bedrooms. He called out to the angel a few times but there was no answer. Dean rubbed his hand over his face, struggling to keep his swearing and screaming internalised. Deciding to start his search logically, he took the back stairs two steps at a time. Cas thought that he didn't know about the escape hatch to the roof; he might have gone up there for some space. Dean poked his head out of the hatch but there was still no sign of Cas. Punching his dislike of heights into submission he crawled out onto the roof and reluctantly walked its perimeter. There was definitely no Cas on or around the building. He climbed back inside and carefully closed the hatch after him. He had searched through a good half of the rooms in the bunker when an idea struck him.

 

Dean almost cheered as he jogged into the 7B storage room and saw the shelves swung outward. Any sound quickly died in his throat. Cas was laying on the basement floor, his wings fanned out to their full span across the concrete. The only illumination was from the corridor behind him and a small fire burning merrily in a copper ritual bowl. 

 

For a second, in the low light, the dark plumes of Cas’ wings could very well have been scorch marks. He clutched at the shelving and held on desperately as he tried to calm his racing heart. When it was apparent he wasn't actually dying of a heart attack, he peeled himself from the shelf. He crept over to Castiel, taking care not to stand on his feathers. He knelt down, ignoring the loud popping from his joints. His hands were still shaking. He pulled them onto his thighs, hoping Cas hadn't noticed.

 

“Hey buddy, watcha doing down here?” Dean cooed, quickly biting his tongue when he heard himself. It was exactly the tone he had taken with Sam as a child when he was upset. 

 

Cas did not respond. He was laying on his stomach, head resting on his crossed arms. He was staring listlessly at the fire in the copper bowl a few feet in front of him. 

 

Dean sighed, hoping Cas couldn't feel his frustration. The last hour had been an absolute rollercoaster of emotions. He sat down gingerly within arms reach of his friend. He stretched his legs out stiffly, again carefully watching so that he wouldn't inadvertently tug on stray feathers. He coughed and rubbed at the stubble on his chin.

 

“Sam’s fine. Just took himself off to the ER. He didn't want to go, but I thought you’d feel better if a real doctor checked him out.” It was a small lie, but the flash in Cas’ eye seemed to imply he didn't buy it. Dean coughed again. “Look, man. You can’t blame yourself, you wouldn’t hurt Sam anymore than I would. He knows that. I know that.” 

 

Cas continued to watch the flames. After a moment he sighed and pulled himself into a sitting position. His wings remained sprawled across the floor.

 

“Regardless, Sam got hurt. He could have been killed. Or you,” he intoned dully. His face was worryingly emotionless.

 

“Lets not get melodramatic, Cas. You can’t hide down here forever. There was always going to be-”

 

“Do you think I could live with myself if something happened to you, either of you?!” Cas shouted suddenly. His eyes fixed on Dean for the first time and the flames in the bowl burned white hot, roaring briefly towards the ceiling. 

 

Dean blinked, struggling to see in the sudden dimness following the flare. 

 

Cas cast his eyes downwards, ashamed.

 

“I thought you couldn’t use your powers,” he said almost automatically, eyeing the angel accusingly. 

 

Castiel sighed wearily. He made a strange twisting gesture with his hand and the fire extinguished. It was much darker with just the hall light seeping in. Surprisingly clear in the gloom, a gleaming white feather leapt out of the empty bowl and Cas caught it without looking, with a deft flick of his hand. He rolled it absently in his fingers, watching as the dark pigment leached back into the plume.

 

“Oh,” Dean whispered, guilt colouring his face. 

 

Cas shrugged and threw the feather back into the bowl. The flames burst into life again. 

 

“Those things really are like magical Swiss army knives,” he said with a forced laugh. 

 

Cas shrugged again, resting his head on his knee and letting his eyes drift back over the flames. 

 

Dean regarded him anxiously, feeling like his friend was balanced on a knife edge. “Cas, buddy, I’m worried about you.” He sucked in a breath, nervously. “Something’s up with you, and I don't know what it is. I want to help. But I, I don't know how. I mean, I’m not an angel. I can’t take your pain away or sing it away or whatever it is you guys do. I’ve been trying. I know you don’t usually go through this alone but other than just being here, I don’t know what to do. I don't know what you need me to do.” His voice broke slightly and he cleared his throat to cover it. 

 

The pain of failure, of once again not being enough, had washed over him unexpectedly. It was strange how after a lifetime of pain, such an old, scarred part of his heart could twist in new ways. He looked to where the edge of Cas’ wing was lying flush with his leg. He tugged it lightly, pulling the limb so it rested on his knee. He carded the feathers, trying not to look embarrassed. 

 

A drink-fuelled introspection the previous night had him arrive at the conclusion that endlessly fiddling with Cas’ feathers was quickly becoming one of his tactile stress responses, like polishing Baby or stripping his guns. It was understandable, really; he was worried about Cas and it was one of the few things that seemed to help. Logical, really. And they were super soft. Who doesn't like soft things? Everyone does, it's why places like Bed, Bath and Beyond even exist. Classic Dean Winchester A+ reasoning. He looked up, feeling Cas’ eyes on him. 

 

Cas opened his mouth to insist that Dean didn't need to do anything but snapped it closed. He could feel the sheer heat of Dean’s anger, but not an ounce of it was directed at him. Castiel might know Dean better than most, know the layout of his very soul. But more often than not, he could not understand the circuitous and convoluted ways that Dean judged others, himself and his duties. However, since he had arrived there, Dean thought that ‘fixing’ Cas was his job, and Dean’s stare had told him simply that, emotions aside, he would bring Cas round to his way of thinking, with his fists if words didn't do the job. 

 

Cas knew that he probably couldn't be fixed. In some way or another he was always broken. A crack in his chassis. A talent for chaos and suffering; for breaking things - breaking people. And he could do that now. Hurt Dean. Knowing just where the pressure points and raw nerves were, push him away like he had done so many times before. But he had never wanted to do that. Never wanted to hurt someone who had hurt so much, or betray someone who trusted so few. All he could do was try, and hope. That was the Winchester way.

 

“You don’t have to be so gentle,” Cas said gruffly, not knowing where to start. 

 

Dean raised his brows in question. 

 

“They won’t break. Here. It helps, with the ache.” He placed a warm hand on top of Dean’s, ceasing its combing. He pressed down, pushing his friend’s hand deep into his feathers to rest against the skin underneath. He guided its movements with his own hand, then pulled away.

 

Dean pushed firmly against the feathers, letting his fingers drag against velvety skin. A laugh escaped him as Cas’ face wrinkled a little. He almost softened his pressure, but the feathers under his hand had fluffed up appreciatively. They sat for a while, the only sound the soft whisper of the flames and the swish of fingers carding through feathers.

 

“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?” Dean breathed with forced casualness.

 

“I . . . I can’t sleep.”

 

“Nightmares?” he queried, not unsympathetically. Nightmares were a personal bane for him.

 

“No. Well, yes they definitely don’t help matters.” Cas looked away. The feathers under Dean’s hand flattened. Silence stretched out again. “It’s . . . terrifying. You can’t imagine what it’s like, being awake for your whole existence. Even when angels ‘sleep’, it's not a true sleep. More like a meditative state. The only times I’ve been truly asleep, when human, I just passed out from exhaustion. I know, logically, sleeping is normal, but it just feels strange. Wrong, even. I feel sick thinking about it. I know if I fall asleep I could hurt you or Sam.” Cas’ voice was low, lower than usual. Even now, just thinking about it, his eyes looked panic stricken. “It’s just a matter of time, before it happens again. I . . .” 

 

He trailed off as he was pulled into a crushing hug. Dean’s hand that had hooked around the back of his neck patted at the few inches of shoulder it could reach. Eventually the elder Winchester pulled away, awkwardly rocking back onto his haunches. His eyes looked glassy and a little red. His hand was still clapped onto Cas’ shoulder.

 

“Sorry,” he rumbled in his throat and looked down, self consciously. “Cas, I should have known. Of course you can’t sleep, fuck.” He watched his friend anxiously, drumming his fingers on his knees.

 

“This is not my first rodeo Cas. Who do you think helped Sammy to sleep when we were kids? We’re trying it my way now,” Dean said stubbornly, throwing his bedroom door open. 

 

Cas started to complain about the risk for the hundredth time. 

 

“This is not up for discussion, Castiel. Just get in the damn bed, or so help me God,” he snapped. His use of the angel’s full name was no accident. It meant, I am not fucking around, you little shit. 

 

He stared Cas down as he glowered back at him, but there was no will behind it. None of his usual, unyielding intensity. Cas was too tired and knew that digging his heels in when Dean was like this was like punching the tide. The only guaranteed outcome of resisting was getting even more exhausted and potentially making Dean angry enough to break out the duct tape. Cas flipped back the covers and slipped between them. He wasn’t sure why Dean was insisting he slept (or tried to) in his own bed, rather than Cas’. Dean had insisted it would help. He lay on his side, propped up on his elbow. He sighed and quirked a brow at the elder Winchester, with more sarcasm than was warranted. Not rising to the bait, Dean opened his drawer and removed a small pill canister.

 

“Sleeping tablets. Now, I’m not going to tell you to take them. That’s your choice.” 

 

Cas paused for a moment and held out his hand. 

 

Dean did not hand the canister over immediately. “If you take these, you’re gonna feel spaced out. Okay? So if you feel even a little bit freaked out or unsure, you tell me. Deal?” 

 

Dean’s voice was unusually gentle. Cas had heard him speak to Sam like that, sometimes. Cas nodded finally and Dean pressed the bottle into his outstretched hand. The hunter traipsed out of the room to get a glass of water, leaving Cas to read the orange capsule. When he returned, Cas wordlessly took two blue tablets and handed them back to Dean. In his other hand, Dean had a paperback book that was distinctly foxed, possibly lioned. 

 

He fished around in the bedside table again, retrieving a pair of reading glasses. He glared at Cas as he popped them on his nose. “Not a word.” 

 

Castiel, dutifully, said nothing. 

 

Satisfied, he propped a pillow against the headboard and sat on the bed. Dean was almost two chapters in when a hand reached up and poked him in the face. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Cas’ serious but very spaced out face watching him. The hand did not move, index finger extended and exerting a constant pressure on his temple. Because he was a professional, he didn't react and his voice didn't change from the even, modulated, reading tone.

 

“Hey, buddy. Those pills must be kicking in by now. You feel okay?”

 

“I don't mean to alarm you, Dean. But I'm certain that when I rebuilt your body I didn't put this freckle back in the right place.” 

 

Cas’ tone was so serious and sincere that he had to bite down on his cheek to stop himself from losing it. He took a moment to compose himself before turning slightly to smile down at Cas’ concerned face. And then nearly lost it again.

 

“You know what, Cas? I never even noticed. You could have thrown them on at random and I wouldn't have minded. Don't worry about it.” His smile twitched a little as a chuckle escaped and threw in a wink. 

 

Cas stared at him owlishly. When it was apparent that Cas wasn't going to remove his hand, or had spaced out and simply forgotten to, he reached up and gently but firmly relocated it to the pillow. Thankful that Charlie’s cracked copy of The Hobbit had a spine so soft it had remained flopped open on his lap, he continued reading. Yes, it was a children's book and Cas probably knew the story already, but nightmare-safe reading for insomniac angels was something he would have to dedicate some thought to tomorrow. He barely managed half a paragraph before Cas caught up with the previous conversation.

 

“That's a relief. I thought you might be mad. I was injured and I had to check your memories when it came to rebuilding all the visible parts. It was exhausting having to check every little detail over and over. That sort of thing doesn't exactly come naturally to me,” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. 

 

He shuffled his wings before stretching them both out a little. He was laying on his side, so when he pulled them back closed the left was folded loosely behind him, the right tucked up and around him. Much like he had been when Dean had visited him on the first night, he was almost completely obscured by feathers.

 

“You did great, buddy,” he murmured soothingly.

 

“Of course, I did my best. You deserved no less, command from God or . . . not. Nearly lost my hand, you know . . . My hand. Not this one. S’never been the same,” Cas sighed, sounding like someone describing forgetting to pick up milk, not the potentially permanent loss of a limb. 

 

Dean’s blood ran cold and he stopped his rhythmic combing. From under the cover of feathers he could see Cas’ hand, extended, fingers wiggling.

 

“You nearly lost your hand?” he said, somewhat stunned. 

 

Cas flapped his hand from under his wing, making a pssh noise. 

 

He made a mental note that as soon as Cas even looked moderately better, he was getting some answers, dammit. Even if he had to drug the bastard again. This was the first detail Cas had ever given him surrounding his resurrection. Not that he hadn't pressed, and pressed hard, for details before. Actually, come to think of it, even absolutely smashed Cas had managed to evade his questions on it.

 

“. . . But rebuilding the soft tissues is always the most difficult. You need to be . . . precise in your measur- measurements. No one ever notices if they wake up with a smaller . . . slightly smaller kidney . . . Humans are so peculiar about their bodies.” Cas continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. His speech was halting and slightly slurred now. 

 

Dean waited to see if Cas was going to expand on what was now sounding like what happened when angels dropped out of healing school. He started reading again, stopping when Cas’ wing nudged him hard in the ribs. Chuckling to himself, he resumed the slow, long sweeps over the dark feathers. The top half of Cas’ head was just visible now and his eyes were closed.

 

“But don't worry, Dean . . . Balthazar assured me, it’s always better to err on the generous side,”  he murmured sleepily. 

 

Dean paused his reading, trying to make sense of that sentence. He replayed the conversation in his head. “Wait. What?” Horrified, he stared at his friend, hoping Cas had misspoken, but the angel appeared to have finally drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enochain:  
> Acocasb Samvelg - The time to the righteous  
> Napta - Blade / Sword
> 
>  
> 
> Add me on any platform, I do a lot of waiting around for lab work so I'm always available for some banter.
> 
> Discord @Quailpower#2270
> 
>  
> 
> Quailpower on Tumblr 
> 
>  
> 
> susurruswant@gmail.com


	9. Chapter 9

It was late enough, or early enough depending on how you looked at it, that a few god forsaken birds had awoken and were excitedly letting all the other birds know. Because even in the animal kingdom, there are assholes. Sam pulled up on the road outside the bunker, knowing he didn't need to meticulously park to avoid Dean’s ire, like if he had driven Baby. He assumed that both his brother and Cas would be asleep - or at least pretending to be - so hadn’t bothered to text and ask for someone to open the garage. After spending several minutes fumbling he managed to get the key into the front door. The local anaesthetic had rendered his right hand an infuriating mess of fingers and it was frustratingly difficult to manipulate the lock with his left hand. He glared at his hand, feeling betrayed. It was a sad state of affairs when you couldn't even rely on your own hands.

 

As he crept along the hall to his room he paused at Dean’s door, which was open a crack. He listened very carefully for a moment before nudging it open gently. Old habits die hard, and some things cannot be unseen.

 

Sam wasn’t surprised to see his brother awake, but he was surprised to see Cas seemingly out cold next to him. Dean was sat leaning against the headboard, one leg hanging off the bed and reading something on his phone. He looked up, saw Sam and quickly held a finger to his lips. He nodded his head towards Cas, as if it was possible that Sam could have missed him. There was a certain wide-eyed paranoia in his stare, usually seen in parents who have just gotten a colicky baby to sleep and hear the postman approaching.

 

Sam was rather slower than usual on the uptake thanks to the blissful painkiller fog. He opened his mouth to ask why Cas was sleeping in Dean’s bed, but snapped it closed when his brothers eyes widened alarmingly. Dean fished the battered book from his nightstand and held it up in explanation. He had, of course, carefully hidden his reading glasses as a matter of pride. In a series of hand gestures and squints (albeit slower than usual for Sam's benefit) he silently described how Cas was in worse shape than either of them had realised, and that he didn’t know what else to do.

 

The younger Winchester remembered the nights he had struggled to sleep as a child, and even as a teenager. Every night Dean had insisted on reading aloud, it didn’t matter what it was. Sometimes if they hadn’t had a chance to visit the local library, there was the quiet recital of Dean’s favourite songs. It was a comforting white noise, the soft cadence of his voice. On the bad nights he had stayed close, sitting on the bed and letting Sam twist his fingers in the hem of Dean’s shirt. The promise was always the same,  _ I will be here when you go to sleep, I will be here when you wake up _ . It was a small promise, but it meant the world to Sam, and it was what had cemented Dean in the centre of Sam’s universe, never John. Because John came and went. He tried his best. He struggled. The weight of Mary’s death seemed to suffocate him some days, leaving him speechless and cold. Even when John was there, part of him wasn’t. Dean was that constant, the one thing that could be relied on. There every night, every morning, every time he woke in the night. Sometimes, even now, when Sam woke from nightmarish dreams, he would climb out of bed and open his bedroom door. Dean’s door would be open too, light spilling into the dark hallway. The low rumble of his voice carrying in the stillness. If pressed, Dean would insist he had been awake the whole time and reading aloud helped him to relax. But Sam never pressed.

 

Feeling distinctly tight in the throat department he pointed at his phone and mimed texting before disappearing into his room. He could safely quiz Dean on how Cas was holding up without resorting to lip reading and charades. He was moderately ashamed when he realised that he was afraid of waking the angel again, particularly with Dean sitting so close. A few long, black feathers had twitched on Dean's knee. His arm throbbed and he rubbed at the edge of the bandage. He knew that any comment regarding Dean’s relative safety next to a sleeping Cas would not be well received. All the anxiety and nerves that his brother had been slowly accumulating had been rapidly converted to a fierce, borderline aggressive protectiveness. Sam had been subject to this himself during his Trials and knew he would have to tread very carefully over the next few days.

  
  


Dean remained sat on the bed all night. His knees started to complain as the hours ticked by, so he carefully stretched them out on the bed. Cas didn't stir. He had remained almost unnervingly still for most of the night. So much so, that Dean leaned over and checked that he was breathing at least five times. Each time the gentle puff of the angel’s breath on his fingertips had calmed him enough that he had allowed himself to close his eyes for a little while. These small power naps did nothing to alleviate his tiredness, but did help to maintain the hypervigilant state he was locked in.

 

The only perceptible change through the night was the slow encroachment of Cas’ wings. Seeming to possess fluid-like properties, they had melted across the bed until one had spilled onto the floor and the other had eventually blanketed Dean’s legs. They were much heavier than he remembered; Dean found himself wondering how hard it must have been for Cas to hold them up, even when apparently relaxing. Any attempt he made to gently shuffle the feathery mass back towards Cas was pointless, it just melted back into position when he let go. The sensation wasn’t uncomfortable, per se, it was not unlike a very heavy, slightly twitchy, electric blanket. The soft, silver alula feathers had extended and tugged lightly at the seam on the side of his jeans as if trying to curl around something. This was the only aspect about the whole arrangement that made him even slightly nervous. While Dean was confident that Cas would be fine as long as he wasn't startled (and thus not slice him to ribbons) it was another matter entirely to be confident while sitting with a bag of knives in his lap. So, happy to gamble on Cas not murdering him? Yes. Happy to gamble on Cas not making him a eunuch? Maybe not.

 

Dean checked his watch, it was nearly 8am. Seeing as Sam had only gotten in a few hours ago, he was pretty sure that his brother would be getting up later than usual. He turned back to Cas, watching the flicker of his eyes beneath his lids. As much as he wanted to let Cas sleep - enjoying more than he should the angel’s slack, relaxed features - he knew from experience that oversleeping often felt worse than not sleeping. He had decided that it was probably safest to gently rouse his friend when he was in a ‘light’ sleep cycle. This hopefully would mean that he would be more lucid when he came around and therefore, less stabby. Although a small voice inside him did wonder if his blind faith that Castiel wouldn’t hurt him was wise, given the last two times Cas had come around swinging. Tentatively he pressed his palm onto the expanse of feathers resting in his lap. Nothing happened. His breath whistled out. Offering silent thanks to Chuck, he started slowly and gently combing through the plumes.

 

“Cas? Time to wake up,” he said softly, giving the wing a little shake while maintaining his brushing, hoping Cas would respond to the familiar, sweeping motions. 

 

Blue eyes blinked up at him blankly for a second before Cas attempted to throw himself upright. Dean had anticipated this. One hand was pressing down gently on Cas’ chest, holding him steady, the other curled around the long edge of his wing. He murmured gentle reassurances. The feathers under his hand shuddered and chimed like shaken glassware, but didn’t take an edge. A heartbeat later the pressure pushing against his hands was relaxed. Dean pulled his hands away slowly, breathing out as quietly and steadily as he could manage. He grabbed a bottle of water from his bedside and handed it to Cas, who took it with a raspy thank you as he wiggled upright.

 

“Morning sunshine. I’d like to start the day by saying, I am a genius.” He winked and grinned at the angel, nudging him with an elbow. 

 

Cas rolled his eyes. 

 

“Oh come on, don’t look at me like that. Eight hours sleep and we’re all in one piece.” 

 

He absently flexed his elbows, reaching over his shoulder to stretch. When Cas didn't respond, the self assured smile on Dean’s face slipped, allowing him to see for a second the fragile need for validation that Dean carried.

 

“You were right, Dean. Sleeping was considerably less stressful with you here,” he said warmly, if still a little hoarse. For good measure he lightly pushed feelings of thankfulness and affection towards Dean, enjoying the slightly dazed smile it produced. 

 

He twitched and shuffled his wings, attempting to ease the stiff feeling of misaligned feathers. Under the pretence of straightening a few troublesome coverts, Castiel eyed Dean critically, noticing he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. His internal clock also told him it was earlier than Dean usually woke up.

 

“Did you stay up all night?” he asked with forced casualness. 

 

Dean flushed, and scratched at the hair on the back of his neck. “Er, yeah. I wanted to keep an eye on you. Some people have bad reactions to Benzos.” He fiddled with the strap of his watch. “And you know, in case you woke up. Realised I didn’t tell you it was okay to wake me up if you needed to.” Dean flicked his eyes down,  scrubbing his knuckles hard against the stubble under his jaw. 

 

This was a high honor indeed. Not even Sam had permission to wake Dean without reason. Demonic incursions, apocalyptic situations and threats to life, limb or Baby were the only exceptions. 

 

“Thank you, Dean,” he breathed, reaching up and letting his hand rest on Dean’s shoulder, slotting almost perfectly over the long gone scar. He held it for a moment before withdrawing. His feathers had fluffed automatically at the surge of affection he felt for his friend. 

 

Dean, realising he had been caught staring at them, looked away. He coughed.

 

“You know me, give me four hours and I’ll be just peachy. I can catch up. Now that we know what works, we can sort all this shit out later.” He waved his hand at the bed stiffly. “And hey, as long as you don’t start stealing blankets, we’re good.” Dean laughed. It was forced and sounded strange. 

 

Cas frowned and opened his mouth to object, but was silenced with a Look. Dean’s expression was mild, pleasant even. His brows were raised high and there was a sharp, lopsided smirk on his lips. Anyone else would have assumed it was a look of fond, if slightly annoyed amusement. Castiel knew better. It wordlessly assured him that Cas’ compliance, while helpful, was not necessary. That Dean had made his decision and was within his ability to enforce this with an iron fist. And possibly, warded duct tape. 

 

Cas glowered back, on principle. 

 

“Do you remember when I said this was not up for discussion? That still stands. Indefinitely. So suck it up, you lost your veto powers when you decided not to ask for help. Capiche?” He crossed his arms, maintaining intense eye contact. The elder Winchester calmly let the dirty look wash over him. They both knew that there could be only one resolution to this staring contest. After a suitable pause to appease Cas’ ego, Dean dropped his gaze. 

 

The angel made a noncommittal grumble.

 

“I’m sorry what?”

 

“Yes. I capiche. This is not up for discussion.” 

 

If suffering could be personified, it would have sounded just like that. A smile twitched at the side of Dean’s mouth. He managed a barely concealed fist pump when he stood up. Any victory before lunchtime, particularly when your opponent was as stubborn as a rock, was to be celebrated. And besides, it wasn’t like Cas was really angry with him, he was just playing the part. He scooped up the pillow from the bed and threw it at Cas, landing a solid hit to the face. It was childish, but he couldn’t help but feel a little giddy that his half-baked plan had worked. Cas slapped the pillow into his lap and fired his best side eye back at the hunter, refusing to even dignify this immature escalation with a look of disapproval.

 

“So, I say we celebrate with some waffles and leave Sam to clean the waffle iron later.” Dean proposed cheerily. The victory smirk was still plastered on his face. He held his hands up and wiggled them as if to entice the angel. 

 

Cas chuckled in spite of himself. Dean’s enthusiasm was rather infectious. “I don't think it’s fair to leave Sam with the dishes. I’ll do them.”

 

“Awesome. In that case I’ll make sure to use every dish we own, no take backs!” He cackled as he stepped aside neatly, letting the pillow thump harmlessly against the door. 

 

Dean wandered off towards the kitchen, shouting over his shoulder that Cas should grab a shower while the iron warms up. Once he was out from under the inquisitive blue stare, Dean slowed his pace considerably and the spring disappeared from his step. He was dog tired. Would probably need a nap before dinner. Jesus when did he get old? When he shuffled into the chilly kitchen and realised, to his horror; that there was no pot of coffee waiting for him, he almost gave up and got back in bed. Sam always got up first, or Cas would drop by in the night, meaning there was almost always warm-ish coffee waiting for him when Dean woke up. This only confirmed his long held belief that early mornings were the devil’s work.

  
  


There was a gentle knock on Sam’s door, quiet enough that he wondered if he had imagined it. He rubbed at his sleep-sticky eyes. A second later the door opened a sliver and he could see a dark shape beyond.

 

“Sam? Are you awake?” Castiel called softly. 

 

Sam rumbled something that might have been a yawn or a yes. A flash of silver curved around the door and made Sam twitch nervously. It was not a knife or gun like his sleepy mind had predicted. Cas’ silvery alulas had curled around the door to push it open as he shuffled into Sam’s room. He had a stacked plate of waffles in one hand and a large, steaming mug in the other. He still looked tired, but some of the tension had eased from his face and shoulders.

 

“I brought you breakfast,” he said somewhat redundantly. Behind him his wing flexed and gently pushed the door closed. 

 

The contrast of Cas using his rather majestic wings for mundane, domestic tasks made Sam want to laugh. Was he hysterical or just tired? Probably just tired. Cas set the crockery down on Sam’s bedside table with a soft clink. His hands flexed and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, nervously.

 

“Are you okay?” Cas was hunched over, wings pressed painfully tight against his back, trying to make himself look small. His eyes were fixed on the bandage on Sam’s arm. The look of desperate sadness and self loathing on Cas’ face almost made the young Winchester want to apologise for getting hurt. 

 

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine Cas. In fact, I’m better than fine. I saw mom, she brought me some food to the ER . . . And I met a really lovely doctor, that I’d like to see again. Like for dinner or something. Not for more stitches. But don’t tell Dean, he won't stop with the Dr Sexy lines,” he breathed, realising that he was rambling and smiled up at Cas’ distraught face. 

 

“Seriously, Cas. I’m okay. It was an accident. Don’t worry about it.” He wiggled upright, leaning back against the headboard. 

 

Sam ruffled his hair absently, restoring it to its glorious, just coiffed look. He scooped up the mug, cursing internally when he nearly dropped it. His arm was weak and oddly floppy. Cupping it between both hands and hoping that Cas hadn’t noticed, he nodded for the angel to sit down next to him. Looking dubious, Cas stooped, sitting on the smallest amount of bed possible. He was balanced precariously on the furthest edge, thighs tensed as if he was going to leap up at any second. Sam watched the steam rise from his mug, thinking. He cleared his throat.

 

“Look, Cas. I can’t begin to imagine how hard this whole Fall thing is for you. But, me and Dean, we’re here for the long haul. Okay? So don’t worry about us. And this-” He raised his bandaged arm. “Occupational hazard.”

 

“I don’t want you or Dean to get hurt because of me.”

 

“I know.” Sam reached out, ignoring the twinge and pull of stitches, and gently rubbed the edge of Cas’ wing with his knuckles. 

 

Cas watched him silently. The hard lines in his brows and jaw had softened. Haltingly, and watching Sam’s face intently, he extended the silver winglet of napta feathers. Sam kept himself still despite feeling the desire to flinch away. He breathed deeply, consciously redirecting any negative thoughts. Cas ghosted the plumes up and down the length of his bandaged forearm, so lightly that Sam could hardly feel the soft pressure of the silvery feathers. The hot, irritated skin underneath cooled under the touch, pulling a relieved sigh from Sam. 

 

He grinned at Cas, keen to express his gratitude at this small gesture. Anything that might relieve some of the angel’s crippling guilt. But Castiel wasn’t looking at him, he was staring into the middle distance, vacant. Sam sipped his coffee, watching him from the corner of his eye. The feathers continued to swish slowly up and down his arm. Cas blinked, coming back to himself and looking slightly embarrassed. He coughed.

 

“You have a lot of stitches. But they are very neat, particularly the ones in the-” his mouth moved as if he was shaping a word, or possibly translating one. He opened and closed his hand, demonstrating the movement “-the flexor digitorum superficialis muscle. Your doctor friend must be very talented.”

 

“You, can see the stitches? With those?” Sam pointed at the silver feathers. He slotted his cup in the crook of his leg and leaned closer, interest piqued. 

 

With a polite nod and even a small smile, Cas allowed Sam to gently hold his first allula in his fingertips. “Not see, exactly. Not like you do. . . Do you want to know a secret about angels Sam?” he said quickly, like he wanted to speak before he had the chance to change his mind. There was a nervous smile twitching across his face. 

 

Sam thought he looked slightly terrified. “Uh, okay.”

 

“Our eyesight is very poor. We use our feathers much more; infrared, ultrasound, pressure, polarised light, magnetism, electrical fields, temperature and waves. Sight is almost inconsequential.”

 

“So when you say poor, is that like, worse than a human? Better?”

 

“Oh, definitely on par with an average, or lower than average human.”

 

“Wow. Well, I guess that explains why you’re always squinting.” Sam laughed at his look of confusion. “But I suppose it makes sense. There probably isn’t much point in having sensitive eyes when you’re a walking light source. How would that even work with pupil contraction? I’m assuming your eyes aren’t made like ours?” Sam’s brows were knitted with benevolent intensity. Distractedly, he drew his fingertips along the vanes of the silver feathers.

 

“No, much less complex. There is no fluid or lense, just a surface with photoreceptors,” Cas mused.

 

“So, what happens when it gets really bright then? Can you just not see?”

 

“Thankfully not, that would be rather inconvenient. We have a secondary eyelid. It’s translucent, it refracts the light away from the eye. It manifests in our vessels, too, to protect the human eyes from the sight of another angel’s light. I’m sure you remember what happened to Pamela. We are unable to heal that kind of damage, so preventative measures are needed,” Cas rumbled, seeming relaxed now. He leaned forward suddenly, putting his face within inches of Sam’s. “Here, look.” 

 

Sam ooohed appreciatively as he watched a glassy membrane moved horizontally across Cas’ blue eyes. Without watching very closely, he would have missed it.

 

“That’s amazing, Cas. Really interesting, thank you for telling me. For trusting me.” 

 

Cas beamed, and Sam instantly felt some of the stress ease from his shoulders. Cas was no longer frowning and tense, and gently tugged his now relaxed wing out of Sam’s unresisting hands, folding it neatly behind him.

 

“You should eat your waffles, before they get cold.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Add me on any platform, I do a lot of waiting around for lab work so I'm always available for some banter.
> 
> Discord @Quailpower#2270
> 
>  
> 
> Quailpower on Tumblr 
> 
>  
> 
> susurruswant@gmail.com


	10. Chapter 10

The clicking of the mousepad on Dean’s computer was the only sound in the library. It was a sporadic metronome, and one of the most annoying noises in all of creation if Castiel was honest. Even with several good nights sleep behind him, his irritability was at an all time high. He had translated all the books Sam had requested, and several additional shelves worth. He was bored out of his mind. This was not helped by the slow progress or his Fall.

 

Sam had helpfully cleaned out an upper storage room and moved in all the boxes of mysterious objects Cas had been secretly depositing at the bunker whenever he visited. Tucked next to the workbench was a large wooden ottoman, freshly warded. Cas had been storing all his fallen feathers in it, and despite knowing exactly how many were in there, still stopped to count them at least once a day. Each time he would mentally calculate the rate of feather loss and work out how long he was going to be stuck in the bunker. The result was never satisfactory. At an overly optimistic estimate, he had tallied at least ten weeks. Feeling irritable was an understatement.

 

This meant that Dean was, for the most part, ignoring Cas and his brooding fit of self pity. Indulging him had gotten old quickly and the angel didn't seem to want to cheer up. Dean took a swig of his coffee and winced. It was stone cold. He eyed the small pile of black feathers where Cas’ wing was resting against the table within a few inches of his cup. Glowering at the back of Cas’ head, he grumbled and swore under his breath. Cas’ feathers may not be able to charge up anymore, but they still seemed to suck the energy out of their surroundings, heat particularly. At current count he had at least seven drinks go mysteriously cold within minutes of being made. He wasn't sure whether this was an accident or if Cas was fucking with him. One look at his scrunched brows told him that asking might not be wise.

 

Dean stood up, stretching with his arms at full extension. There was a disturbingly loud crack from his lower back that was intensely satisfying. He sighed happily, scooping up his still full cup, with the intention of wandering into the kitchen and maybe making some lunch. He stopped as he squeezed past Cas’ backwards chair. He distractedly tugged at some of the largest quills. Not one had fallen yet and they were irritating the angel terribly. Under his hand the feathers fluffed appreciatively; Cas did not respond.

 

The pyrex coffee pot clattered loudly against the formica as he busied himself pouring two new cups of coffee. Because even if Cas was fucking with him, Dean Winchester was a saint, obviously. He loitered near the fridge, glancing back at the library guiltily. As much as he wanted to help Cas, being a twenty four hour angel-sitter was beginning to wear him down. Although he was now sleeping, he did wake periodically through the night. And even when he didn’t, Dean did, still at maximum hyper vigilance. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe he needed to get outside for a little while, shake out the cobwebs. Sam was due back from a supply run soon, he could slip out then. Pretend he wanted to pick up a pizza from that awesome shop a few towns over. Hell, he didn’t even need to pretend, he did want a pizza. And he could probably squeeze in a few brews at the dive bar on the way out there.

 

The clanking of the main door rang through the bunker. Dean smiled. After staring into the fridge for the third time - hoping that the food fairies had been - he grabbed the large tupperware Sam had filled with chopped fruit. He wanted to book it out of the building as fast as he could now that Sam was back, but he couldn't turn off the little nagging voice in the back of his mind. Cas hadn’t eaten anything today. Dean was so deep in smother mode that yesterday he only just managed to stop himself from insisting Cas wrap up warm and wear a scarf and hat if he was going to sit on the roof all day. He shoveled some of the prepared fruit into a bowl, spending more time than he probably should picking out more blueberries from the mix because Cas loved them. He scooped a few spoons of plain yogurt on top, wrinkling his nose when he licked the spoon afterwards. Finishing up with a few artistic dribbles of honey, he practically skipped back into the library with both coffees and the bowl resting in the crook of his arm.

 

When he returned to the library, Castiel hadn’t moved. He was still hunched over the table on his sideways chair, occasionally tutting or grumbling. The journals that were filled with his perfect typographical notes and sigils (unreadable to the brothers, not for lack of trying) were strewn across the table. A few loose leafs of paper had escaped under his elbow, their designs scribbled out. As Dean slid the mug and bowl towards his elbow, Cas leaned back. He glowered at the latest design; it apparently did not meet his approval. With a growl, an actual, honest-to-Chuck growl, he scrawled a line through it and pushed it away from him. Dean grimaced just from the proximity of Cas’ anger. He leaned back against the table beside his friend and gingerly reached out. His fingertips traced the outlines of the smallest feathers in a gentle, calming fashion.

 

“Something bothering you, Picasso?” he rumbled. 

 

Cas hummed. 

 

“Here, you need eat something. Don’t think I didn’t notice you skipped breakfast and lunch.” He nudged the bowl a little closer. 

 

The angel looked up for the first time, eyeing Dean and his offering. His frown relaxed slightly. “Thank you, Dean.” He fiddled with the spoon, aware that he was still being watched. “I have felt out of sorts today. I’m sorry if that caused you concern.” 

 

The elder Winchester flapped his hand, in his universal forget-about-it gesture. “Anything I can do?”

 

“No, no. You’ve done more than enough. I think it’s just - what did Sam call it? Cabin fever? It will pass.” 

 

Dean nodded, cupping his coffee with both hands. He felt distinctly guilty about sneaking out to get pizza now. Maybe he should wait until tomorrow.

 

“What exactly are you doing with all those?” he said, waving a finger at the designs as he sipped his scalding drink, more for a distraction than anything else

 

“Oh. I’m designing some new sigils. Or trying to. It is not going well.” Cas tapped his spoon irritably against the now empty bowl. 

 

Dean was impressed. And also a little gleeful that he was the one to crack the code of the journals, or so he would tell Sam anyway. “I didn’t know you could make new ones,” he wondered aloud.

 

“Yes, although it’s not an easy art to master. It was one of the few things I was any good at,” he muttered darkly. His feathers rustled as he flexed his shoulders, the frown returning.

 

“Well you’ve got-” he was interrupted by a bang and Sam’s shout. 

 

Before the sound of running footsteps across the landing even started, both Cas and Dean were on their feet. Dean’s coffee splashed across the table as he threw it down to unholster the gun from underneath the table.

 

The shrill ringing sound of feathers sharpening was impossibly loud. It echoed and reverberated, ringing like the feedback from a speaker. Dean dropped to his knee, clutching at his jaw. It felt like his teeth wanted to vibrate out of his face. Thankfully, this also seemed to have incapacitated whoever had jumped Sam at the door. There was a melody of thumps and swears as a lithe figure stumbled into view. Her brilliant red hair shone in the ambient light, and despite the apparent discomfort Cas’ feathers had caused, a smile was still plastered across her face.

 

“Charlie?” Dean and Cas echoed in surprise.

 

Dean experimentally cracked his jaw, sliding the gun back into its holster under the table. Cas turned to check that he hadn’t done any damage to the elder Winchester. Dean held up his hand for him and wiggled his fingers; he had yanked it away from Cas’ wing as soon as he felt the beginning of a shiver. Despite this, Castiel’s face was stormy, jaw twitching as he clenched it. Sam skidded into view seconds later, cupping his own jaw.

 

“Sam, what is Charlie doing here? We are supposed to be on lockdown,” Cas snapped, voice cracking like a whip. 

 

It was sharper and harder than Sam had ever heard before, stopping him dead in his tracks. His look of mild annoyance blanched under the angel's fury. 

 

Charlie, who had been equal parts excited and awestruck, recoiled. Her face fell. She abruptly stopped her skipping walk, dropping back a few steps. She looked positively heartbroken. 

 

Cas instantly regretted his tone. He mentally chastised himself for letting anxiety overwhelm him. This was only made worse now that he could feel Dean's smoldering anger burning at the back of his neck.

 

“I’m sorry, Charlie. It is, of course, lovely to see you. But being here, now, with me, puts you in considerable danger. Something I was hoping to avoid.” He smiled weakly at her and managed a half-hearted glare at Sam. 

 

Sam ducked his head, looking embarrassed. “She ran past me at the door,” he mumbled, almost to himself. 

 

Dean rolled his eyes, tutting. Cas quirked his brow but did not comment. He had been harsher than the situation warranted and could feel the shame radiating off the younger Winchester. Charlie bounced on her heels, looking nervous and unsure. She was unusually quiet. Dean eyed the sharp feathers critically, sliding the pad of his finger down the centre of a smooth, flat plume. It rang like the rim of a wine glass.

 

“You need a minute, Cas?” he said gruffly. 

 

The angel nodded, giving Charlie another small smile before turning back to the table. 

 

“Come on, let's go fix us some drinks. I’ll bring you up to speed.” Dean padded over to the still confused girl, capturing her in a one-armed hug. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, murmuring something that sounded like, good to see you. He took her elbow gently, guiding her towards the kitchen, giving Cas a wide berth. 

 

Left to his own devices, Sam sighed. “I’ll go and bring the rest of the shopping in, I suppose,” he mumbled, padding off down the corridor

 

 

Cas was seated at the head of one of the tables when they came back, sat sideways on one of the armless wooden chairs. His feathers were soft, although to Dean’s expert eye, they were pulled down rather tight. He rose when they entered, quickly arranging his face from pensive to his ‘kicked-puppy-look’, hoping this would work as well for Charlie as it did for Dean. Hesitantly, looking to his friend for encouragement, he held out his arms to Charlie. His step was slower than usual, giving her the chance to turn away from him. She too, nervously looked to Dean, who nodded discreetly. With an explosive smile she jumped into his hug, clapping her hands onto his shoulder. She squeaked happily when he wrapped his arms around her tightly and lifted her off the ground a few inches. Cas pressed his forehead to her shoulder and very gently pushed a feeling of happiness to her, aware that the unusual sensation might startle her. Returning her to the ground, he waved his hand, indicating that Charlie should take the seat next to him. She sat, arms and legs crossed, eyes flitting constantly from Cas to his wings. 

 

Dean sidled past, choosing to take a seat on the other side of Cas. As he passed, he ran a hand in a long sweep along Cas’ wing. Before pulling his hand away, he let his fingers sink into the feathers and scratch at the skin underneath. He had two mugs balanced in one hand and lowered them to the table unsteadily. He slid one a few inches closer to Charlie and busied himself cleaning up his spilled coffee with a tea towel that was hooked over his elbow.

 

They talked amiably for a few moments, both gently inquiring about Charlie’s latest travelling. The neutral ground and knowing that Cas wasn't actually mad at her seemed to have relaxed her somewhat. 

 

After a few moments of watching the angel out of the corner of his eye, Dean grabbed at the wing closest to him. It had been shuffling and twitching almost constantly and the gentle swish of feathers had been driving him to distraction. He pulled hard, now confident enough that he wouldn’t actually hurt Cas by manhandling them. Cas didn't seem surprised by the gesture, but he was jerked sideways in his seat from the sudden tug. He relaxed, allowing the hunter to unfold it across his crossed legs. Continuing to chatter with Charlie, Dean began to burrow his fingers into the feathers, to feel where the thickest quills of Cas’ primaries were rooted.

 

“These ones still bothering you?” he asked redundantly, as Cas had visibly sagged when he had begun to tug at the quills. Charlie watched with obvious fascination, carefully following Dean’s hands. After a few minutes of intense concentration he cheered quietly. He held up one of the troublesome primary feathers for inspection. It was over three feet in length. 

 

With a nod from the angel he placed it reverently on the table. Charlie, who had fallen silent, gasped as the colour began to fade. She leaned forwards, hands hovering over the feather. Castiel chuckled and indicated that she should take it. Holding it like it was made of glass, she ohhed and ahhed appreciatively. 

 

Sam stomped into the room, cutting her inquiries short. He was carrying two long black cases and two sets of binoculars. He stacked the cases neatly on the table and handed a set of binoculars to Dean, who rose in his seat to grab them.

 

“I thought that we should go up to the roof, give the area a once-over. It’s probably too much to hope that no one’s watching the bunker and saw Charlie get here.” Sam spoke with his eyes downcast, fidgeting with his own binoculars. He was clearly still embarrassed that Charlie had gotten the drop on him. He shuffled past Cas and lightly ruffled the feathers of his folded wing. 

 

Sam was much more gentle than Dean. He smiled up fondly at the younger Winchester. Sam cleared his throat, running his fingers through his hair.

 

“There’s something I wanted to show you actually, Cas,” he rumbled, leaning over to flick open one of the black cases. Three sets of eyes swiveled as he held up a single bullet. “I made these: hollow point, 54mm, rifle rounds. Inside, there is a tiny piece of prophet bone. You see, I was thinking, it’s such a strong repellent. If we could shoot it into someone, and it stays in, it would force the angel to leave their vessel.”  He paused, watching the others. 

 

Dean seemed impressed, the corners of his mouth turned down. Cas had stilled and was tensed in his seat, staring at the bullet with a mix of anxiousness and interest.

 

“Oh. You’re safe Cas. I put some of your blood in it too, and copied the binding glyph from the box you kept the bones in.” He smiled, placing the bullet neatly back into its case. Despite his assurance, Cas breathed a sigh of relief.

 

“I must admit, I am impressed, Sam. I never would have thought to use the bones to exorcise an angel.”

 

“So, you think it will work?”

 

“Yes, without a doubt. Truly devious, Sam.” 

 

Sam laughed, the tension easing from his shoulders. Dean could hardly hide the look of smug pride that tugged at his lips. He rose from his chair leisurely and strode around the table, giving his brother a hearty slap on the back.

 

“Come on then, let’s go and see if there’s something we can test these babies on.” Dean clapped his hands together, winking at Charlie. He flicked open the case, drawing out the Dragonauv rifle with a whistle. It was a beautiful gun; the wooden stock and cheek-rest were stained almost gold, with delicate scrolling sigils. Without a further word, Sam unpacked the second rifle - John’s old SR-25 - and strode off in the direction of the back stairs with Dean at his heels. Over his shoulder, he could see Cas delicately extending his wing for Charlie to touch, much to her delight.

 

It was a mark of the brother’s delicately attuned senses that the rapid squeaking of Charlie’s tennis shoes on the tiles and hissed whisper-shouts produced a reaction comparable to being told that there was an active shooter in the building. But being professionals, and being in the game long enough to have muscle twinges older than some hunters, they did not launch themselves into action immediately. Sam carefully put down the plate he was drying and hooked the towel over the rail. Dean stopped dicing potatoes, and considered the knife for a moment before leaving it on the counter with a shrug. He exchanged a look with Sam that was actually a silent, rapid fire discussion on exactly what was going wrong now.

 

As they got to the kitchen door, Charlie appeared with a soft ‘ooft’ as she collided with the walking wall that was Sam Winchester. He cupped her shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. Her ponytail bounced as she looked from one brother to the other.

 

“I think there’s something wrong with Cas,” she whispered. Her hand curled around Sam’s wrist anxiously. 

 

Dean had set his jaw before she had even finished the sentence. He brushed past the two of them without a second glance. Sam was not far behind, with Charlie struggling to keep pace without actually running. And that was the whole trick of it; if there was no shouting, no running, was anything actually wrong?

 

“We were just vegging out, working through all the marvel films, when he just froze up. Stopped responding. That’s not normal right? Normal for an angel I mean?” she huffed, nails biting into Sam’s tanned skin. Now that she could see the tension in Dean and Sam’s faces, doubt had risen, hope on the horizon. Maybe she was just missing a few pages from the angel users manual. Sam had mentioned Cas’ weird power downs in lieu of sleep, maybe he had just gotten tired and checked out?

 

There was a small pile up at the door. Dean had apparently decided to do some reconnaissance before committing to walking in, leading both Sam and Charlie to bump into his back and step on his heels. A quiet swear out of the corner of his mouth might as well have been a reflex. What Charlie wasn't expecting was the calm, almost gentle way Dean called out to the angel. She had assumed there would be shouting and shaking.

 

“He’s listening to something. Prayer maybe?” Sam murmured, shrugging, looking mildly hopeful. It evaporated instantly under a baleful look from Dean.

 

“You think? That ain't prayer he's tuned into,” he hissed, kicking at a pillow and sinking into the chair next to Cas. “Supposed to have the damn thing switched off,” he mumbled to himself, scrubbing at his face with his knuckles. 

 

The angel had no more responded to Dean than anything else. He was curled sideways on the sofa, wings hanging over the arm and resting his chin on his knee. After watching him silently, Dean sighed. He hunched forward, letting his arms rest on his knees and staring blankly at the floor. 

 

Charlie wondered if this was a sign that Cas was indeed broken, or possibly that the expected shouting was about to make an appearance. Sam gave her a little, reassuring pat, trying to communicate with a scrunch of his brows and a nod that everything was fine, that this was in fact just a normal Winchester day. When she turned to inquire further, being only a novice in Winchester Sign Language; he shushed her. Knowing that Dean was currently in the prayer position he usually reserved for angry prayers, and any interruption was a risk. Seconds ticked into minutes.

 

Castiel shuffled his wings and blinked a few times. The soft rustle of feathers in the absolute stillness was enough to snap Dean back upright and straight into a second, angrier gear.

 

“Seriously? I leave you alone for five damn minutes. What the fuck, Cas? I've never seen you get sucked in like that before. So either shit’s going down on dickbag radio or you just did something stupid,” he roared without pause. 

 

Cas stared at Dean, one brow cocked questioningly. He seemed a little off still, unfocused. He seemed to wobble from watching Dean’s wildly gesticulating hands to staring up at Sam and Charlie’s concerned faces.

 

“I . . . I wanted to see if there was any . . . chatter about the, the, Bunker. Find out if Charlie had . . . had slipped by unnoticed,” he said softly, seemingly startled by the sound of his own voice.

 

“Cas? Cas? Look at me,” he said firmly, gently wrapping his hand around the angel’s wrist. 

 

His skin was cold and under even the lightest hold, he could feel the racing pulse. He narrowed his eyes, now surveying the angel critically. Cas was hunched over slightly, his other hand pressed against his chest. He still seemed to be having difficulty focusing but was holding Dean’s gaze as instructed. There were small changes in his usually passive features that would probably go unnoticed by anyone else. And there it was: fear. The racing pulse, clammy skin, difficulty breathing, and disconnection. A motherfucking panic attack.

 

Dean’s mind, usually so reliable in a crisis, went blank. It was possible that Cas was projecting his sense of panic outwards, but Sam and Charlie seemed unaffected. Fuck. He knew how you should speak to someone who was having a panic attack. Knew, specifically, how to talk to Sam, but he had no idea what to say now.

 

“Sam,” Dean hissed, turning in his seat but keeping tight hold of Cas’ wrist. He mouthed ‘panic attack’, gesturing with his eyes and a minuscule nod that his brother should Do something. Like, Now. Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to frame his thoughts that it might be better if Dean did the talking. Dean widened his eyes, aggressively. Sam flinched, instantly stooping down to sit on the floor next to the sofa. He fiddled with the cuff of his shirt.

 

“Uh. Cas. I need you to listen to me. You’re okay. I know you don't feel like it, but you are okay. You trust me right? You're having a panic attack. So I need you to focus on breathing. Everything is gonna be just fine.” He put on his best ‘victim voice’, smiling warmly up at Cas. The angel was watching him, or the general area he was in at least. 

 

Dean moved to pull his hand from its gentle grip on Cas’ wrist, knowing that any sensation could be overwhelming. Without looking away from Sam, Cas’ hand snapped closed around Dean’s fingers. His knuckles were white.

 

Dean shifted in his seat. Prodding his brother’s knee with his foot to get his attention, he attempted to subtly communicate that he thought grounding Cas might help. It didn’t work for everyone, in fact it could make it worse for some people. Sam thought for a moment before nodding. The elder Winchester took this chance to shoot Charlie a reassuring smile; she was hovering in the doorway, chewing at her fingernails. Dean shuffled closer, resting his thigh against Cas’ knees to gauge his reaction. Cas didn’t respond, continuing to watch Sam drone soft assurances. 

 

Slowly and deliberately, Dean leaned over and cupped the back of Cas’ neck with his other hand. His palm rested against the prominent nodules of the angel’s spine, careful not to exert too much pressure. He could feel the erratic pulse in his fingertips and thumb where they curled around his neck. Castiel managed a few laboured, but definitely deeper, breaths. Sam beamed up at him. Dean tried to mimic the benign smile but it felt like a rictus, tight against his face.

 

“That’s it, you’re doing great. Nice and slow. We’re not going anywhere, we’re going to get you through this. I know it feels horrible, but I promise we’re not going to let anything bad happen to you. This is totally normal. Happens to everybody. Even me, even Dean. Hell, Dean pukes every time, even if he swears it’s just alcohol poisoning. Not that you should aim for that, this isn’t a competition,” Sam’s voice had taken on a painfully cheery tone. The manic gleam in his eye told Dean that he would cut a bitch if there was any macho-fueled contest to this story.

 

“I peed one time,” Charlie squeaked. 

 

Three sets of eyes swiveled up to her. Sam gave her a slightly confused, ‘well done, you tried’ look. 

 

Dean cleared his throat. “Okay? Thank you for that, Charlie.” He was definitely glad he’d had a good night’s sleep, because this was clearly going to be one of those days. “Can you run down to the kitchen? There’s a jar of holy water in the fridge.” 

 

With a hurried nod she scurried off, the squeak of her shoes echoing through the building. Sam rocked back onto his heels, making sure to stay in Cas’ eye line. They sat in silence. When Charlie returned with the water, Castiel took it with a weak smile. Now that he seemed to be coming back to himself, the air was thick with self-loathing tension. 

 

Cas quietly thanked them, eyes downcast. Assuring them that he was fine now, and just wanted some time alone with this thoughts. Dean’s hand lingered on his shoulder, not wanting to let Cas go off on his own so soon and still a little shaky. As he shuffled past the brothers, his wingtips brushed against Sam’s shoulder and Dean’s knee, in what they knew was an affectionate gesture. He was too tired to push feelings towards them. As he came to the door, he all but walked into Charlie. She scooped him into crushing hug, arms flailing slightly as they bumped into his wings. He rested his cheek against her crown, before pulling away and wandering off in the direction of the basement.

 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	11. Chapter 11

 

With Castiel absent, the room was deathly silent. Charlie hovered in the door, frequently glancing over her shoulder to where Cas had disappeared. She desperately wanted to follow him, thinking that he shouldn't be alone, but didn't feel it was her place to say.  Dean scrubbed at his face with his hands, silently hating himself for being right. The universe really must have a three day threshold for throwing shit sideways for them. He sighed into his palms, letting the calluses on his fingers press into the soft skin of his eyelids. Sam cleared his throat - looking at once shifty and nervous. His internal barometer for gauging his brother’s mood was spinning wildly. He could either get this very wrong, or just right.

 

“Uhm. You want to go grab some shut eye? I’ll finish up dinner. Seems like you’re going to have a rough night,” he said cautiously. Sam clambered to his feet with a sigh, ducking his shoulders and stooping, in his tried and tested method of making himself a smaller target for Dean’s anger. Too late, he realised that Dean had not made Charlie aware of their nocturnal arrangement. This was a problem because Charlie would run with that snippet of information like a kid in a candy store.  _ Fuck. Abort mission! _

 

Oblivious to Sam’s frantic thinking, Charlie was now watching the both of them intently. 

 

Dean groaned, rocking back in the chair and refusing to look at either of them.

 

“Cas has had some, uh, problems sleeping. You know, because angels don’t sleep. So he’s, he’s been bunking with Dean. It’s the only thing we’ve figured out that works,” Sam mumbled, staring at the floor in what he hoped was a conciliatory way. This did not have the desired effect.

 

“Yeah, well. Cas probably just needs someone to be there. But we’ll never know because Sam here’s too chickenshit to give it a whirl,” Dean muttered under his breath, almost automatically. 

 

Sam looked instantly guilty and Dean regretted even bringing it up. It was a cheap shot at an easy target. If he was honest with himself, he wouldn't let Sam sleep next to Cas just in case something did happen. 

 

Meanwhile, Charlie stared at him blankly. He flicked his hand at Sam’s still bandaged arm. “His fight or flight response is jacked right now. Surprise him and he comes round swinging. Haven’t found anything those damn feathers can't cut through, either.” He crossed his arms and cleared his throat, shooting an apology to his brother in Winchesterese. Accepting this silent, barely-there apology, Sam offered a hesitant smile. The tension eased somewhat. 

 

Charlie tittered nervously into her shoulder. This seemed to surprise her and she snorted, then quickly slapped both hands over her mouth. Looking mortified. 

 

The elder Winchester rolled his eyes heavenward. “Spit it out,” he rumbled, keeping his eyes on the ceiling. 

 

Keeping her hands clamped down on her mouth she looked to Sam for assistance. He raised his hands in the universal gesture of ‘you’re on your own’, but had the good grace to look a little ashamed at this blatant cowardice. Dean drummed his hands on the arm of the chair.

 

“It’s just . . . sharing a bed; that’s like, the biggest fanfiction trope ever.” She flinched back, preemptively, but no explosion came. 

 

Sam’s jaw was hanging slack, watching the two of them in horrified fascination. Dean nodded once, lightly slapping his hands on his knees. He wordlessly stood up and marched past Charlie, closing the sitting room door with a menacing click. He turned back to his captive audience with a mild, almost benign look on his face. He leaned on the closed door, the only exit.  

 

“I want you two to listen to me, very carefully, because we are never having this conversation again. My number one priority is getting Cas through this in one piece. No matter what it takes. So you can make your little jokes, I dont give a shit. Knock yourself out. But if you, either of you, even think about that bullshit around Cas, I will make sure you suffer, endlessly, during your long, long lives. Because if that idiot thinks for even one second that he is being an inconvenience, or making me uncomfortable, he’ll go back to passing out in the library, and you know how that ends, Sam.” He let them stew for a moment, holding their sheepish gaze with narrowed eyes. 

 

Satisfied that they were suitably cowed, he turned to take his leave. He kept his chin high in the air, but couldn't resist a parting shot at the downtrodden masses. “And don’t think I won’t revoke your internet privileges, both of you, if you start saving that Supernatural Deestiel shit on my computer,” he said over his shoulder.

 

“Destiel,” Sam and Charlie mumbled in unison. They both flinched as the door slammed into the frame as Dean left. Safe from his ire they shared a conspiratorial smile.

“Castiel? Are you down here?” Charlie called softly, lingering near the storage shelves. The last thing she wanted to do was startle the angel. 

 

Her fingers traced the negative space around the arcane objects. There was a quiet rumbling sound that might have been confirmation. The high, crystalline noise she had heard earlier when she first arrived echoed softly around the room. It made her teeth tingle. Part of her wished that she hadn’t ended Dean and Sam’s heated whisper argument over who was going to check on Cas by stalking off berating men in general under her breath. She crept cautiously around the open shelves. Any trepidation vanished, as in one moment, her heart broke. The feelings of awe and inadequacy that had gnawed at the back of her mind when dealing with Castiel suddenly seemed entirely unimportant.

 

Cas was sat in the darkened room, his usual straight-backed, imposing stance folded into a small heap. His knees were pulled up, crossed at the ankles and his arms were wrapped tightly around them. A copper bowl was balanced between his knees and his bare chest. A small flame flickered within it, illuminating his drawn features in a white, unforgiving light. His wings were spread across the floor, melting into the shadows. The light glittered along the sharp edges of his plumes. She padded closer, before kneeling beside him. Cas watched her, his blue eyes washed almost white in the firelight. She fiddled with the sleeve of her hoody.

 

“Sam’s finished dinner, if you want to come upstairs. You can stay down here if you want to, obviously, but-” She paused, scouring every inch of his face for any hint of emotion, unsure if she was crossing some invisible boundary. “I’ve been there. Fear, it can feel so overwhelming. Like your whole world has just dissolved into all kinds of darkness and pain. But you don’t have to suffer through it alone. Sam, Dean and me, we all want to help.” 

 

As softly as she spoke, her words still echoed in the vacuous silence. Her expression flitted sporadically from concern to soft, encouraging smiles. For all his assurances to Dean that he was feeling better, the angel still seemed disconnected. If Charlie couldn’t see the shallow twitch of his breathing, she could believe he was a statue. She bowed her head, letting the loose curls that had escaped her ponytail hide her face.

 

“I’ll go if you want me to. But please, Cas. Let us help you. You shouldn’t be alone right now,” she whispered. 

 

As the final echo of her words faded away there was a subtle change in the atmosphere. Almost like the sensation of ears popping at altitude, but much less noticeable. Looking around, she saw that the previously razor sharp feathers had relaxed into their soft format. She wondered absently how he controlled this change, if there was some form of angelic sympathetic nervous system. Mentally chastising her wandering mind, she gingerly held out her hand. When he did not pull away she let the tips of her fingers brush against the wing closest to her. 

 

Cas was watching her guardedly. The look of confusion and mild self loathing on his face made her chest tighten painfully. A lifetime of undiscovered maternal feelings suddenly found focus. She scooted closer, until she was within inches of him. Again, extending her hands slowly, she daintily prised the bowl from his lap and placed it to one side. With a firm hand she pressed down on his knees until they lowered. Cas continued to observe her with an almost numb indifference. Charlie chewed her lip, doubt beginning to seep into her mind. With a rigid set of her shoulders she reached for the angel and pulled him into a tight hug.

 

It was different from the hugs Cas had received before. Charlie’s arms were locked around his shoulders, easily escapable with his strength, but unyielding enough to make him feel like she didn't want to let go. It was a small gesture, but for someone who rarely felt tolerated, nevermind wanted, it was almost overwhelming. Her small, soft form was nothing like the rough, hard shapes of Sam and Dean. The whole experience was strangely comforting. Her hand wandered up to his hair, tenderly smoothing the unruly mess. Some of the tension inside of him eased and he relaxed, allowing her to take a little of his weight. Cas didn't really know about mothers; he had never bothered to untangle the complex mess of emotions his vessels associated with theirs, like he usually did when seeking to understand things. But he did know about sisters and brothers. He was reminded of the tangled piles they would often lie in, when at rest. How Balthazar, Anna or Inias would sometimes wriggle under his wings or he under theirs, seeking closeness, and at other times how they would playfully puff flames at his feet or yank on his feathers. 

 

As much as he loved Sam, Dean and the other members of their little family, he couldn't imagine they would ever be comfortable with the level of companionable physical contact that came naturally to angels, although Dean was certainly trying his best. But Charlie, perhaps she could. She had wormed her way in so easily. And it couldn’t hurt that to his tired eyes, the brilliant red of her hair looked so much like Anna’s crimson plumage. She jumped a little as his wings curled around and nudged at her sides. 

 

Charlie smiled against his temple.

 

Dinner was awkward. Dean seemed to be alternating between fierce smother mode and annoyance. Sam was desperately clinging to some hope that the night could be salvaged, but was sabotaging himself by sporadically asking about Cas’ wellbeing in his victim voice, to the angel’s increasing annoyance. Cas’ jaw was set so tightly it was a miracle he could actually chew his food. Periodically he would stop eating and scoot the potatoes around his plate, having little appetite. This pantomime of eating would work until Dean noticed, at which point the elder Winchester would clear his throat and raise his eyebrows, just so, causing Cas to shoot him a guilty look and to resume actually eating without a word. 

 

Once or twice, Charlie had had to cough into her hand as she struggled to suppress a jibe at Dean’s motherly expressions. She could imagine at any minute that Dean would refuse to allow Cas to leave the table until he finished. Mostly thanks to this, Charlie seemed to be the only one unaffected by the grim mood. She had sat next to Cas, positively beaming when he had draped his wing across her shoulders, and was now kindly petting at the feathers curled around her arm as she ate one-handed.

 

“Hey, guys. Can I set up my Xbox in the TV room if I'm going to be staying here a while?” she queried with a slightly tense grin. The not-so-hidden question hung in the air. When no one objected to her suggestion of staying, she relaxed a little in her chair, tossing her fringe out of her eyes. 

 

Both Dean and Sam quietly affirmed that, yes, setting the Xbox up would be fine. Whether they actually were okay with the idea of Charlie setting up camp in the bunker with them indefinitely or that they were just too mentally exhausted for another fight was a whole other matter. Unabashed, she jabbed at Cas with her elbow. 

 

“I can show you those games we were talking about, if you’re feeling up to it. Keep your mind occupied,” she chattered away happily. 

 

Cas smiled indulgently at her, nodding along as she spoke. They finished up dinner with Charlie excitedly describing Overwatch to the whole table and the different strategies that she used. After a few minutes of everyone staring at their empty (or in Cas’ case, mostly empty) plates, Dean rose stiffly, rolling his shoulders. He was reaching for Sam’s plate when Cas spoke.

 

“If you all have a moment, I’d like to explain to you all what happened earlier,” he said in a brisk, clipped tone, holding up a hand to silence the chorus of platitudes and protests. “Please. It’s important.”

 

He seemed to be saying this directly to Dean, who held his gaze silently. With a minute flick of a nod the elder Winchester returned to his seat reluctantly. His entire body had gone from relatively at ease to painfully tense. Without looking at the angel, he scooped up the bottle of whiskey and topped up their glasses; Sam and Charlie’s had been barely touched. He could feel the heat of Castiel's laser-focused stare burning into him without needing to see it. He settled back into his seat, slowly crossing his arms and taking his time to check Sam and Charlie's worried faces before turning to Cas.

 

“The angels were threatening me, which in itself is not unusual. It is part of the reason why I turn it off, most of the time. However, this time they were assuring me that, if I was found, I would suffer the fate of an Oracahe.” His voice was measured and calm, yet when he came to the Enochian word it shook slightly. He quickly took a sip of his drink, hoping no one had noticed.

 

“Orocahe, translated literally, means ‘those underneath’. Some biblical scholars call them Thrones. They are part of the very structure of Heaven. Without them, there would be no ‘angel radio’. Only the most devout angels would volunteer. Others, who had commited truly heinous crimes, would be forcibly converted. 

 

“When we were created, angels communicated solely with their wings; as you know we used sound, vibrations, colour and movement to create an impossibly complex language. And of course we could communicate telepathically, transmitting concepts, images and feelings. But both of these have a very limited range, and both are extremely subjective. Making it very easy to misinterpret, particularly over distance. Enochian made it easier to speak telepathically across greater distances, but each angel usually only has a range of a few miles with their mind. Orocahe were made to solve this issue. Living angels were mutilated into becoming broadcasting beacons. Not unlike cell towers, actually, now that I think of it. Across the world they created a network between all angels. That is what they were threatening to do to me.” 

 

He coughed, rocking his glass in both hands and watching it as if it were the most fascinating object he had ever seen. Unlike Cas' earlier explanations of angelic qualities, his voice was flat and hollow. His feathers, which had already been pulled down tight, chimed softly but did not sharpen. He withdrew his wing from Charlie’s shoulder and folded them tightly against his back. 

 

Sam was leaning forward in his seat, oozing sympathy and shared pain, but carefully noting everything Cas had said. Charlie was watching her newest friend with wide eyes. A timid hand extended and cupped his own. Giving her fingers an appreciative squeeze, he knocked back the rest of his drink in one motion. Dean hadn't moved, hadn't said a word. Had they not been so fixated on Castiel, the others at the table would have taken this as a very worrying development.

 

“Angels who are made Orachae have -” he stopped, closing his eyes. A sigh of frustration escaped him. “They have their wings removed so they cannot escape, so they cannot speak or talk to other creatures, so they cannot use their powers. They are blinded and scarred with holy fire so they cannot communicate and so that no sensory input distorts the transmissions. Then they are banished into the very fabric of the veil.” He spoke quickly now, as if hoping that he could escape the words if he got rid of them fast enough. “They are alive, for all intents and purposes, but can conceive of nothing but the thoughts that are directed through them. Over time they become unrecognisable, their bodies twisted and warped.” 

 

His eyes were fixed on the empty glass in front of him. He flinched as Charlie shuffled closer to him, but then leaned in gratefully to the weird, one sided hug she offered. 

 

Dean cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he rumbled, voice strangely monotonous. He knocked back his own drink and stalked off. 

 

The sound of his heavy tread retreating into the kitchen was the only sound. Charlie and Sam watched him with obvious concern. A few minutes passed. The sound of breaking China made them all jump. There was an explosive cacophony of smashing and clattering metal. The elder Winchester stomped back into the library, face thunderous.

 

“I want their names. Every. Damn. One. I want their names and I swear to god I will hunt each and every one of them down, even if I have to summon the bastards myself! I will make them wish they could banish themselves to the veil. Damnit!” He kicked at his chair, snarling.

 

“Dean!” Sam barked, warningly.

 

“Dean,” Cas echoed, softly. He peeled himself free from Charlie and slipped around the table to where Dean was alternately muttering darkly and swearing in unintelligible rage. “Dean, calm down, please,” he murmured, gently taking hold of his friends elbow. 

 

The soft touch halted his irritated pacing like it was an off switch. All of the explosive energy coursing through him evaporated. His shoulders sagged. 

 

“It’s alright,” Castiel breathed soothingly. 

 

“No. No it’s not. It’s not alright, Cas,” Dean snapped. 

 

He was angry, so angry. How dare those winged dicks. Those soulless assholes. They had taken everything from Castiel. His family, his home, his safety, his sanity, his identity and his agency. And yet they had the audacity to threaten him? To take away what little he had managed to claw back? No. Nada. No way. Not on Dean Winchester’s watch. What did he need? Some chalk for sigils, candles, angle blade and . . . 

 

An indescribable feeling of calm passed through him, stronger than Cas usually directed at him. Firm hands pushed him down into his seat. His traitorous legs buckled and he found himself being tucked under the table like a belligerent child. He glared up at Cas.

 

“No, it’s not. But getting yourself wound up isn't going to help anyone,” the angel said in a low tone. 

 

Dean flushed, catching sight of Charlie and Sam’s incredulous looks. Shame burned hot under his skin. Christ, could he do anything right? Cas asking for Dean's help with his Fall was probably the biggest fuck up on his list of fuck ups. He was supposed to be supporting Cas, and all he seemed to be dong was flying off the handle and doing the wrong thing. He couldn't remember feeling that angry since the Mark had burned on his arm. Nervously, Dean rubbed a palm against the inside of his elbow, out of habit more than anything else. Hoping to assure himself that the skin was still smooth and unbranded.

 

“Sorry,” he rumbled, coughing to clear the lump in his throat. 

 

Cas squeezed his shoulder, leaning into his space to refill their glasses. The long, soft edge of his wing brushed along Dean's shoulder, the downy feathers tickling along his jaw. As Cas scooted back around the table towards his chair, he let the peak of his wing ruffle through Dean’s hair like a feathery nuggie. Sam and Charlie laughed, and even Dean managed a tight smile after batting Cas’ wing away. 

Castiel woke. He felt like he had shoved his hand into an electrical socket, muscles twitching but reluctant to move. An internal switch jammed between fight and flight. The only coherent thought under the screaming sirens of fear, panic, and pain was: Dean. Cas could feel the gentle movement of Dean’s unprotected chest under the weight of his wing. He bit down on his cheek, convulsing against the intense impulse to sharpen and protect himself. Blood filled his mouth. There was so much blood; in his dreams, in his throat, all over Sam and Dean, everywhere.  _ No, no, no, no! This isn't happening! _ He might have shouted, but his voice didn't seem to be there. There wasn't any air in his lungs. The blood in his mouth began to dribble down his throat, choking him. Strong, warm hands pulled him upright.

 

“Cas?! Jesus, Fuck! What the hell - is that blood?!” 

 

He didn't respond. He wasn’t even sure Dean was really there; it sounded like he was shouting from the end of a tunnel. There were several muffled bangs in the darkness as someone attempted to turn on the lamp with one hand. The sudden burst of light whited out the angel’s vision. When his eyes adjusted, the first thing he saw was two wide green eyes inches from his face. He coughed again, pitifully trying to release the pressure in his chest. Still, sounds were muffled and vision blurry. Someone, he assumed it must be Dean, was tugging him into a more vertical position. The convulsions that wracked him had reduced now to a violent shivering, making it difficult to remain sat up. One of his wings had gotten pinched between his back and the headboard. The sharp, physical pain was the only clear sensation since he had awoken. He pressed back, harder, concentrating on the feeling. Rough, but surprisingly gentle hands were cupping his face, thumbs brushing at his cheeks in little sweeps. 

 

“. . . hey, hey, hey, easy, easy, it’s okay, Cas. It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here.” Dean’s voice had come into focus finally. It was pitched low and soothing, but occasionally it would quaver. “I’m here. Sssshh. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you.” 

 

Something soft brushed against his lips, dabbing at the tacky blood that had escaped them. An old T-shirt maybe? It smelled strongly of Dean.

 

“Dean?” Cas croaked. 

 

It didn’t sound like his voice, but Dean didn't seem to have any difficulty understanding him. His face lit up with relief. The calloused palm now resting on the angel’s shoulder squeezed tightly. Cas sagged against him in an ungainly lurch. He didn’t feel like he was fully in control of his body. Everything was still strangely distorted. Slowly, Dean’s hand crept to its earlier place, cupping the back of Castiel's neck. It seemed to offer both of them some comfort. 

 

Dean's leg and shoulder started to tingle and go numb. Most of the angel's dead-weight was resting heavily against Dean’s side but he didnt care. He counted the breaths that Cas took, occasionally interspacing the whispered count with gentle praise. The angel pressed back into the hand on his neck, making Dean’s arm ache with the strain of holding it steady. He measured time with the gradual slowing of the pulse under his thumb. Dean's other palm came to rest against Cas’ sweat-damp cheek. It took far too much willpower to resist the urge to brush what might have been tears from his friend’s dark lashes. 

 

Cas moved first, when the room finally stopped spinning. Shakily, he reached out to take a bottle of water from the bedside. He said with a wave of his hand that he was fine now, and would like to lie down. He refused to meet Dean’s gaze, clenching his jaw tightly as feeling rushed back to his now freed wing. 

 

Watching his friend sadly with a twitch of his brows that expressed doubt without accusation, Dean turned off the light. The soft melody of pillows, blankets and feathers filled the silence. As the quiet minutes passed in the darkness, Dean almost convinced himself that Cas had nodded back off to sleep, exhausted. His shaking had stilled and he could feel the familiar pressure of a wing encroaching on his side. The adrenaline had finally started to fade. He almost missed then Castiel’s cracked voice, barely a whisper in the dark.

 

“I think I’m broken.”

 

It was a punch in the gut. Completely unexpected, and it hurt. Dean coughed, struggling to swallow around his suddenly tight throat. His mind whirled, desperately trying to find something to say.

 

“Dont,” he rasped, and reached over to clasp Cas’ hand, roughly. “Don't say that Cas. You’re not broken. A little roughed up and worn at the seams. Yeah. That’s just part of being a Winchester. Come for the resurrections, stay for the trauma and shitty luck,” he rambled. 

 

Cas shifted and made a small noise that might have been a laugh or a sob. 

 

Dean gnawed at his lip. He never knew what to say. The words just sort of froze up in his brain, deflecting with humour like he always did. He had half a mind to go and wake Sam. Sam always seemed to be able to say the right things. Always knew exactly what soulful and touching speech was needed. Dean pulled away, rubbing at his face with both hands. Staring at the ceiling as if it held the meaning of life.

 

“Fuck it,” he mumbled to himself, then louder to Cas, “come here.” 

 

Leaving no time for the angel to object, he curled his hands around Cas’ shoulder and hauled him closer. It was clumsy and hardly gentle, but he managed to position Cas so that his head was on Dean’s chest. After a moment of hesitation and some confusion, the angel relaxed against him. Despite being the one to initiate this contact, Dean seemed to be uncomfortable. He finally settled with draping one arm over the back of Cas’ shoulders, sandwiched between them and his wings. His other hand sought the soft silver alulae, curling into the hollow they formed when folded away. The feathery digits pressed into his hand in a strange mimicry of a handshake. He breathed a little easier.

 

Dean knew that Cas was confused by this sudden intimacy, because even though he often spoke in a language of touch, Dean always seemed to pull away from embraces, even with Sam. The elder Winchester had even gone out of his way to make Cas aware that he would be sleeping on the floor if he invaded Dean’s side of the bed. With no explanation being offered, Cas turned his head to stare up at his friend.

 

Dean watched the lined face of his friend gravely. In the near complete blackness he could only just make out the shadows of Cas’ face. Pressed against his chest, Castiel didn’t look like the Angel of the Lord, with a capital A. There was no wrath, no blazing glory, no fierce love. He looked beaten. His skin was still cool and clammy to touch. Wiggling his arm out from under Cas wings he pulled the blanket up over Cas’ shoulder, tucking it gently under his chin and wings. 

 

Still he watched Dean, silently.

 

Struggling to find the words, to speak around the lump in his throat, Dean prayed. As he often did when communing with Cas, there was no specific words. Had he been an angel, he could have pushed his feelings, made Castiel understand. But he wasn't. So he had to hope that Cas could see in the cascade of images; the regret that he had failed Castiel before, the sadness that his friend was suffering with no sign of relief, a surging desire to comfort and protect. 

 

Cas closed his eyes, the susurrous metronome of Dean’s heartbeat in his ear soothing his racing mind as Dean's prayer faded. Sleep did not come for either of them. Several times, he opened his mouth to speak but the words never came out. The dark, stifling atmosphere that had overtaken this usually peaceful room seemed to consume them. Hours could have passed. 

 

Dean lay thinking. He was too tired to read. Often when Sam was young he would simply recite the lyrics of his favourite songs. Realistically, he knew that classic rock wasn’t what Cas would want to hear now. Heaven and hell allegories didn’t seem appropriate. What would you even sing to an angel? Hymns? Dean was never religious enough to care for anything more than an exorcism. And would Cas even want that? How did human singing compare to the sounds of angels? 

 

His mind drifted to the tapes John would play when he thought the boys were asleep. Tucked in the dash were a few cassettes that had been Mary’s. He remembered waking more than once to the quiet thumps of John hitting the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. Face twisted and eyes glassy. Eventually the Leonard Cohen tape (which seemed to be a particularly cruel offender) had been thrown out in a drunken rage. 

 

Fuck it. It sounded appropriate, even if the song was about something else entirely. He cleared his throat, feeling strangely self conscious. Cas had heard his version of caterwauling in the car and in the shower more than once. He tried to ignore the prickling feeling at the corner of his eyes, as his fingers on Cas’ shoulder gently traced out a melody.

 

“I heard there was a secret chord, that David played and it pleased the Lord. But you don’t really care for music do ya? Well it goes like this; the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift. The baffled King composing Hallelujah. Hallelujah . . .”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/-FL7H2moJDw 
> 
> A beautiful cover of Hallelujah
> 
>  
> 
> https://youtu.be/y8AWFf7EAc4
> 
> the Jeff Buckley cover of Hallelujah that will rip open your soul and pour salt on it
> 
>  
> 
> Add me on any platform, I do a lot of waiting around for lab work so I'm always available for some banter.
> 
> Discord @Quailpower#2270
> 
>  
> 
> Quailpower on Tumblr 
> 
>  
> 
> susurruswant@gmail.com


	12. Chapter 12

“Come on Cas, don’t be a baby. Let me see. You don’t want to get some kind of nasty infection in your mouth, dude,” Dean whined from across the table, twitching his head as if he could see around the cup that Castiel was holding like a shield in front of his mouth. 

 

“No,” Cas grumbled, taking a sip of coffee and being careful not to wince. “I told you I'm fine. I am more than equipped to diagnose the severity of a cut, Dean,” he snapped, swatting at the hunter’s hands which had been gravitating across the table, towards his face. He shuffled his wings, the soft chime of feathers being more than enough to convince the elder Winchester to withdraw his hands. 

 

“Give it a rest, Dean. If Cas says he’s fine, he’s fine,” Sam called from behind the fridge door. 

 

Dean glowered darkly at the back of his brother’s head. Sam either didn’t seem to realise or care, probably the latter. He continued rifling through the contents, muttering under his breath about needing to go shopping again soon. Dean irritatedly scooped up his cup of coffee and groaned. It was ice cold, yet again.

 

Heaving himself to his feet, he swished the coffee down the drain and refilled his mug from the pot, now dividing his dark looks between Cas and Sam. Cas returned his stare with an almost militant neutrality, face completely blank. Meeting Dean's silent accusations of fuckery with a calm look that said:  _ Hmm? I have no idea what you are talking about, that doesn’t sound like something I would do.  _ Mollified, but skeptical, Dean eased back into his seat. The sounds of Sam bustling around the kitchen filled the silence. He had refused Dean’s earlier offer of pancakes, commenting to deaf ears of the disadvantages of having a sugary breakfast. 

 

The younger Winchester seemed distracted, his usual methodical preparation interrupted by repeatedly checking his phone. Dean watched him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye, nursing his own coffee. Slicing veggies. Checking his phone. Whipping eggs. Checking his phone. Prodding at his omelet. Checking his phone. Sam finally returned to the table, squeezing between Cas and the wall. Dean cleared his throat, preparing to question this odd behaviour. Before he could start, Sam scooped up his own coffee cup without comment and popped it in the microwave, to Cas and Dean’s disgust. Knowing that Sam, too, was suffering from the cold coffee phenomenon eased Dean's earlier grumpiness significantly. He inclined his head, gesturing at Sam’s phone with a raised brow. 

 

“You finally set up a Tinder profile or something?” Dean queried with a little laugh. 

 

Sam froze for a second, knife and fork poised. “Oh, that. No. I’m expecting a call from one of the hunters out west,” he said, a little stiffly. 

 

Before Dean could question this further, Charlie breezed into the kitchen, buttoned up in a set of Harry Potter flannel pajamas. She waved at them in turn, yawning ‘good morning’ into her hand. She leaned against the kitchen counter, lazily chattering to Sam and Cas about a book she had found. Completely uninterested, Dean leaned back in his chair, letting the calm, companionable atmosphere wash over him. It was a rare moment of domestic bliss. The gentle clink of crockery caught his attention. Cas had put down his cup and was completely distracted. He was turned slightly in his seat to face Charlie, wings folded neatly, high on his back and definitely obscuring some of his peripheral vision. Never one to give up easily, and occasionally stubborn to the point of stupidity, Dean took his chance. He slowly edged across the table, preparing to lunge and grab at Cas’ face.

 

Sensing this unusual stillness from Dean, the angel whipped his head round to face him. One silver alula flicked out from the peak of his wing like a switchblade. It swished down over his shoulder with a peel, spearing Dean’s sleeve to the table. Castiel’s face was framed in quiet rage. His feathers rang softly and he narrowed his eyes threateningly at the elder Winchester. 

 

Charlie and Sam shared a look, each clearly wishing they could be somewhere else right now. Sam shuffled in his seat, edging away from Cas slightly and clearing his throat in a desperate attempt to disperse the tension. With a final acidic glare, Castiel pulled back his wing, letting Dean snatch his arm back and leaving a deep gouge in the tabletop. Despite being the offending party in this case, Dean had the gall to look hurt. He scowled, rubbing his arm even though he know it was completely unharmed. 

 

Sam sighed, wordlessly saying,  _ ‘Really, Dean? Can you not?’ _

 

“I have a cut in my mouth and Dean won’t leave me alone. He’s smothering me,” Cas complained, turning back to Charlie’s confused face. 

 

She tutted, shuffling over to the table. Balancing her drink and the coffee pot in one hand, she shoved the hunter's shoulder. “Quit it, you weirdo.” She shoved at him again, making him shuffle over to the seat closest to the wall so she could sit down. 

 

Grumbling, Dean leaned back against the wall, falling silent with little dignity as Charlie cheerfully refilled his own cup from the pot. She did the same for Sam and Castiel before returning to their earlier conversation. When Cas winced a little after taking a sip of his coffee, she oohed sympathetically. 

 

“Ouch, that sucks. Is it bad? Can I see?” she cooed, leaning across the table and letting her hand rest on his arm. 

 

With a slightly confused look on his face — like he wasn’t quite sure why he was doing it — Cas obediently opened his mouth. She cupped his chin lightly and leaned a little closer, turning his head this way and that. Behind her, Dean threw up his arms in exasperation and mild outrage. It was mixture of  _ why do I even bother?  _ and  _ motherfucking stubborn bastard!  _ Sam snorted, muffling it behind a forkful of food. 

 

“Oooh that does look sore, but you’ll live.” She smiled and ruffled his hair affectionately, dropping back into her seat. 

 

Suddenly, the tinny ringing of Sam’s phone interrupted Dean’s brooding. The large man struggled to extract himself from the cramped table, and jogged out of the kitchen.

 

Dean turned a little in his chair, keeping one eye fixed on Sam's exit form the kitchen, curious. His brother had an almost compulsive need to reply to texts and calls immediately. Usually he would answer the phone, then make his exit. Suspicious, but not enough to follow Sam, he struggled to tune out Cas and Charlie’s confusing discussion about muscle memory to listen to what Sam was saying. He could tell from the short, mumbled answers that it wasn’t a ‘Consultation Call’ as Sam had been calling them. Although, personally, Dean thought of them as ‘Bobby Calls’. Those had been coming in thick and fast since Sam had set up the two Winchester hotlines for American hunters to call. Dean had answered several of these calls when Sam was busy. It was tedious, but there was something intensely satisfying about having all the answers, or at least the resources to get them. Sam padded past the door, pacing in the hallway. A lull in Charlie and Cas' conversation allowed him to hear Sam mumble, ‘ _ Interesting’ _ and  _ ‘that sounds promising.’ _

 

Dean turned back to the table, realising that the quietness was caused by Charlie and Cas both staring at him, clearly unimpressed with his eavesdropping. Refusing to look even a little ashamed, he shrugged his shoulders. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, enduring the silent judgement for a few more seconds before jumping up. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Dean followed his brother into the library. He had barely crossed the threshold when Sam turned to him, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

 

“Looks like we might have a lead on Kelly.” He didn't seem surprised that Dean had followed him. 

 

“From…?” Dean asked with a quirk of his brows, noticing the nervous way Sam's eyes darted and the corner of his mouth twitched. 

 

“A friend of Garth’s, actually. A woman matching Kelly’s description was seen a few towns over from them. And, get this, apparently she didn't smell like a human.”

 

“Oh, so we’re going on the word of random werewolves now?” he snapped, scrubbing at his face with his knuckles. 

 

Sam winced and sighed, as if he had expected this reaction. “I did ask Garth to look into it himself. I’d like to know for certain before I leave.” He took his phone out of his pocket and fiddled with it, avoiding looking at his brother. 

 

“I'm sorry, leave?” He held up his hand, shaking his head like a dog. “No, no, no, that is not the plan, Sam. We stay here, wait it out with Cas, then we go out looking for Rosemary and her baby.” 

 

“We don't know how long that is going to take. What if someone else finds her in the meantime?” Sam said, crossing his arms and sighing when Dean unconsciously took up his argument stance: shoulders back, chin high, head tilted, and arm raised to wave emphatically. 

 

“Look. Let's think about this logically. Cas has to stay here, but he doesn't need both of us here 24/7. We don’t know how long he’s going to be down. He seems to think it's going to be weeks. We can't afford to just sit here and wait. We need to follow any leads that come up, and this is too good of a lead to pass up.”

 

“Exactly, if it sounds too good, it probably is, Sam. It could be a trap.” 

 

Sam hummed, indicating that, yes, that was a valid point that he had considered, but refused to let it budge him. He clenched his jaw a few times, before reminding himself that grinding his teeth wasn’t good conflict resolution. 

 

“You can't just walk out of here, Sam. Even if it isn’t a trap, dollars to dimes, if the angels aren’t watching the bunker, they're looking for Kelly. What if you run into them out there, alone?” Dean said hotly. His voice had been raising in pitch throughout the conversation. He gestured wildly towards the door as if to indicate the mirriad horrors that lurked through its threshold, choosing to disregard, for now, that Sam had been safely making supply runs at least twice weekly without issue. 

 

With a final, rough cough Sam raised his hands. “Look, it might be something, it might be nothing. Let’s just see how it plays out with Garth. But the way I see it, we haven't got much choice.” He turned and stalked off, leaving Dean to goggle in his wake. 

 

The elder Winchester swore under his breath and carded his hands through his hair anxiously. Any lingering good feelings from breakfast had vanished, and the prospect of Sam leaving to work a lead alone had filled him with hollow, aching dread. 

  
  
  


Dean stalked out of the garage, hands stinging from the swarfega soap.  In sharp contrast to his pink, spotless hands, there were oil stains all over his clothes and smudges up his arms and face. It was in his hair and his eyes were itching. Perhaps unwisely, he had tried to ease his foul mood with some good, honest manual labour. ‘ _ Tried’ _ being the operative word. 

 

He had decided to do a service on Charlie's car; it was in an absolute state and honestly made him nervous that she was driving it around. First, the sump cap had been rusted on, leaving him with a nice gash from the spanner across his knuckles when he finally managed to heave it off. The oil that came out wasn't really oil anymore, it was more like sludge. He ended up using nearly twice as much oil as he should have just to flush the gunk out. Chuck only knew when it had last been done. A quick inspection of the brake fluid told him that needed changing too, meaning he now had a dead leg, having spent nearly an hour pumping on the brakes to bleed out the system. But worst of all was the radiator. That was the icing on the fucking cake. After popping the sump plug back in, he had poked his 13’ spanner at the radiator, thinking there was some mud caked on the bottom. It turned out that the brown flaky buildup was actually a mix of rust and mud that made up about 90% of the radiator. The entire thing seemed to disintegrate under his touch, and Dean, sweaty and oily, was showered in the dust. He had stumbled out from under the car, cursing up a storm, spending several minutes with his face under the tap trying to wash the particles out of his eyes.

 

Charlie was blasting some of her god awful music in the library. In addition to the migraine-inducing thumping bass, there seemed to be an orchestra too. Joy of joys. In his temper he almost collided with Sam as he came through the door. Swearing more aggressively than was warranted, he felt distinctly guilty when he saw Sam's hurt look. Determined to make his way to the kitchen for a drink, even if it was before 12pm, he shuffled around his giant of a brother. He had barely made it around him before his brain caught up with what he was seeing. He clutched at Sam's arm desperately.

 

“What the hell?!”

 

Charlie and Cas had apparently cleared a space in the library and were. . . dancing? And not just any dancing either, that was definitely ballet. Dean might have considered himself uncultured, but even he recognised a few of the sweeping moves. Cas was either decidedly unhappy with the situation or was concentrating intensely, he couldn’t be sure at this point. Charlie on the other hand, was beaming and laughing alternately. They were both twisting elegantly on one foot, slightly out of sync, with their arms extended. Then, with a skipping bound, Charlie leapt into Cas’ arms. He lifted her with ease, and with surprising elegance, hooking one arm around her thigh and another supporting her ankle as she positioned it almost horizontal. 

 

“Please tell me this isn't a musical curse. There’s no such thing as musical curses, right?!” Dean stammered, clutching at Sam. Eyes wide and pleading. Much to Dean's dismay, Sam started laughing –  _ well at least he wasn't singing _ . 

 

“We were talking this morning about how Cas uses the muscle memory from his vessel. God, weren't you listening?” Charlie called, stumbling a little as she twisted around Cas’ hip and pointed her socked foot in the air. 

 

She knew full well that Dean hadn't been paying attention because he had been trying to eavesdrop on Sam, and took the opportunity to make him squirm. It was weird enough to walk in on your friends recreating a scene from Swan Lake, especially when he’d had no idea that either of them could even dance in the first place. But the fact that one of said friends was currently rocking a set of huge wings, that were being held almost comically still, was just too much for Dean. Apparently his weird-meter did still work, sporadically. He threw up his hands.

 

“And??” 

 

“Well, apparently Jimmy was quite good at ballet,” Charlie said, matter-of-factly. The tone grated on Dean; he knew it wasn't intended but he couldn't help hearing: _ you didn’t know that about your best friend? You don’t know much about him, do you? _

 

“I thought Jimmy was a salesman?” he snapped. 

 

“Yes, but his aunt ran a relatively famous ballet school. Nina Novak. By marriage only, not a blood relative,” Cas chipped in finally, as if this small matter of pedigree was an incredibly important detail. He dipped Charlie down, cupping the small of her back, before returning her delicately to her feet. She grinned and dropped a little bow, with some jazz hands added in for good measure. 

 

“I mean, come on, where’d you think a salesman got thighs like this from?” She laughed, flipping her hair and slapping at Cas’ sweatpant-clad thigh. He didn't seem even slightly bothered by this gesture and shrugged. He stretched, rolling his arms and flexing his wings. Now that Cas had stopped moving, his wings had relaxed and the rest of him returned to its usual tense poise. 

 

“Can't say I’ve ever sat and stared at my best friend’s thighs,” Dean grumbled, more to himself than anything else. 

 

Charlie gave him a look of unashamed disbelief that made his cheeks burn. It said that while she had heard some truly spectacular lies come out of his mouth, that was clearly a new record. He coughed, ducking his head.

 

“I did wonder if Jimmy had been, like, a marathon runner or something,” Sam said, thoughtfully. Three pairs of eyes turned to watch him silently. “What?”

  
  


Sam was not having a good day. He’d known it was going to be bad when Garth had rang him before 9am to tell him that he had in fact seen the lady matching Kelly’s description. Dean had overheard this phone call enroute to retrieve his first cup of coffee, and thus, Sam had not been shielded by the soothing veil of caffeine that eased his brother into consciousness. He had weathered Dean’s sleepy rambling for nearly half an hour before Charlie’s cheery face peeked around the door, offering salvation in the form of distraction. Dean had been awake enough to notice the sudden burst of hope on Sam’s face, and whirled around. Charlie was gone, replaced by a flash of black and the impression of feathers. 

 

Sam swore under his breath. “Look, Dean,” his face twitched as he tried to force a look of resigned calm into place, without much success. “I’m going to pack my stuff. Then, I’m going to get in the truck and investigate this lead. I get that you’re pissed. But this is happening. Feel free to follow me out to the car if you want to continue berating me,” he said, firmly and slowly while maintaining eye contact. 

 

The fact that Dean wasn't fully awake played into his favour as the elder brother trailed off into an offended spluttering. Sam turned on his heel, the very image of decisiveness, and strode past his brother, taking care not to shoulder barge him. He might be frustrated, but he wasn't suicidal. Dean stared after him, mouth hanging a little slack due to his pre-coffee processing speeds, his expressions cycling through outrage, disbelief and finally quiet resignation.

 

Sam was awkwardly hefting a rather large trunk into the flatbed of Cas’ truck when he saw Dean slink out the garage door. He rested his hands against the tailgate, appearing to be taking a breather from the manual effort, but in reality he was mentally preparing himself for another round of arguing with Dean. He was more than a little surprised when Dean finally strolled over to him, looking subdued. The elder Winchester was hobbling slightly, thanks to the bulk of a large cool box hooked on his elbow. He dropped it at Sam’s feet, straightening up and setting his chin high.

 

“Thought you might need something to eat, if you still plan to make this whole stupid journey in one day,” he rumbled, gruffly.

 

“Er. Ok. Thanks, I guess,” Sam said with a little laugh, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. 

 

Despite the peace offering, his brother was still giving off very strong “I am right, and you are wrong,” vibes. If Sam had been a betting man, he would say that a certain blue eyed, definitely not morning person had something to do with this and the sour, pinched look on Dean's face. It gave him great pleasure to imagine how this had played out. Castiel descending, like a bed-head crowned vengeful God, kicking Dean's ass out from under him with nothing more than his words. No one could deliver a dressing down like a caffeine-starved Cas. It was a sight to behold.

 

“So, what changed your mind?” Sam asked nonchalantly, eager to reap the full measure of his revenge. 

 

Dean shrugged, looking down at his feet and scuffing a few stones with his boots. 

 

The younger brother scratched at his stubble, hoping to hide the smirk threatening the corners of his mouth. “Was it Cas?” 

 

“He might have had something to say about it, yeah.” Dean rubbed at his lip with his thumb. “How come you’re taking that piece of crap? It’s a long journey and you know Cas barely maintains the thing.” 

 

He kicked at one of the truck’s tires to test the pressure, looking grim. Dean had, at this point, begun to wonder if Cas had spelled the vehicle somehow because it seemed to defy all logical expectation and keep going. But then again, given Castiel's talent for working himself until he physically passed out, there was always a chance that like its owner, the truck was saving itself for a spectacular, life-ending breakdown. The last thing Dean needed was for Sam to end up stranded miles away from home with them on lockdown.

 

“Baby is a bit conspicuous, don’t you think? We definitely need to keep a low profile with Cas here.” Sam’s eyes flicked nervously back towards the bunker, wondering if it was wise to disturb the uneasy peace between them. 

 

Dean let out a long sigh. “You're not wrong. Last thing we need is angels storming the place if they think the cat's away.”  _ Or worse, have them coming after you to draw us out,  _ he thought to himself. 

 

Sam met his eyes, seeming to echo Dean's sentiment,  _ or worse.  _ The whole situation was an absolute shit-show. Dean groaned, rubbing both his hands down his face, pressing into his eyes hard enough to see stars. He kicked himself away from the tailgate, shaking himself down as if he could physically fling the negative thoughts away from himself. Sam mirrored his movement, shaking out his shoulders. 

 

They both wandered over to the cab, slipping back into the easy comfort of each others company. Working in sync, they finished packing up the truck, with Sam stowing his kitbag on the passenger seat and Dean nestling the coolbox in the footwell. The younger Winchester busied himself fiddling with the seat position, adjusting for his longer legs. He snorted a little, pointing and drawing Dean's attention to the truck's mirrors which were all but useless – obscured by dirt or pointing at the sky. Dean watched him for a moment, reclining back in the passenger seat.  Sam was fidgeting with the dashboard mount for his phone, brows pinched in concentration. 

 

The younger Winchester didn’t seem to be bothered at all by the stitches in his arm, or rather the remnants that hadn't dissolved at this point. This was another thing that was weighing heavily on Dean's mind. While they had taken care to ensure his arm healed up well, including some helpful physiotherapy exercises from the nice lady Doctor, there was always a chance something hadn't quite gone right. Cas had 'looked over it' at least three times before Dean had been satisfied. But even with that, he had insisted that Sam shoot, spar and field strip his weapons with Dean watching like a hawk for any minute twitch or weakness. Without Dean there to back him up, Sam would be relying on being as able and competent as possible. Something he, unlike Dean, didn't seem to have a problem with.

 

Dean snapped open the cool box, fished out two beers and popped the caps with the angel blade secreted in the dashboard. He leaned over to pass one to his brother. Sam scowled but accepted, knowing a peace offering when he saw one. Dean tapped the dashboard clock with his beer, a smirk plastered over his face. It read 12:02pm. Sam chuckled, shaking his head. He had previously assured his brother that drinking before twelve was a sure sign of alcoholism. He had clearly waited for those two minutes to tick by, knowing Sam would check the clock. A grin teased at his mouth as they clinked bottles. The brothers drank in easy silence, Dean fiddling with the label on his bottle and Sam doing a final once-over of the weapons, documents, and phones in the cab. 

 

With a final, decisive pull of his drink, Dean slapped at his brother’s elbow, holding it tightly. “Be careful, alright? I want a check-in every twelve hours.”

 

“Yeah, sure, Dean,” Sam said, a little husky. How many times had they parted like this? He cleared his throat, watching as Dean swung himself out of the truck and stalked around it. He let his hands rest heavily on the steering wheel, mentally recounting his plans.

 

“Hey, Sam? Before you head out, have you noticed Cas acting strange?” He paused for a second. “Stranger than usual? Around Charlie?” Dean called with forced casualness, leaning onto the tailgate. He brushed some dirt from the taillights.

 

“Weird like what?” 

 

Dean shrugged. Realising Sam probably couldn't see him, he made a rumbling, noncommittal noise. Sam turned a little in his seat, watching his brother’s profile in the newly adjusted mirror. He thought carefully, knowing that whatever it was that was causing Dean concern would have probably been eating him up for a while.

 

“He does seem more . . . relaxed with her around. I suppose that is weird for us.” Sam frowned, considering this depressing revelation.

 

Dean hummed thoughtfully. That was something that he hadn't considered. Was being relaxed and happy that unusual for them? How fucked up was that? He had definitely seen Cas at ease, content. But had he ever seen Castiel really relaxed? Happy? He was going to need more than a solitary beer to consider that. 

 

“Look, Dean. Charlie knows Cas isn't in a good place right now, she's not going to do anything stupid. The worst that can happen is she gets him hooked on Doctor Who or something. They clearly love spending time with each other. Maybe Cas doesn’t need serious right now.” Sam smiled to himself. So far, he had thought Castiel and Charlie's little friendship was adorable. It reminded him of the kind of friendship he’d had with Dean when they had been small. 

 

Dean didn’t seem completely sold with this argument. He continued to silently clean the taillights of the truck. 

 

“And honestly? She’s probably the closest thing he's got to another angel, for comfort, I mean. Charlie is wicked smart. If anyone can understand how angels think, it's Charlie. She practically thinks in code herself. Plus she has that weird, cuddly innocence going on,” Sam said thoughtfully, recalling their rapid-fire conversations at the kitchen table that he had struggled to keep up with. Catching sight of his brother's hunched shoulders in the rearview mirror, he stifled a laugh.

 

“Why the third degree? Are you feeling jealous?” It was worth the risk of potentially pissing his brother off, just to see Dean jolt upright, looking horrified.

 

“What? No. God no.” He studiously avoided Sam's eye in the mirror. He pretended to be inspecting the tailgate latch. “Just couldn't put my finger on what was different. Worried you know?” he said, exuding casualness and flicking the tailgate closed with a snap. “You’re probably right,” he muttered. 

 

Sam eyed him critically for a moment, a comment balanced on the tip of his tongue. Dean padded back towards the door with a final wave. Sam sighed wearily.

  
  


Sam slid his hands lovingly over the worn leather of the steering wheel. It was unusually warm today and he was enjoying having the window open, as well as having complete control over the radio. It was an intoxicating power, being able to shuffle through the entire library of his ipod. As he pulled around the dirt road of Garth’s property, he was surprised to see a slim figure waiting outside the house. He reached for the pistol on his passenger seat as he rolled closer. The person, who he could now make out as a blonde, slim woman, waved frantically at him. Even after he recognised her as Garth's wife, Sam couldn’t shake that something was deeply wrong with this situation.

 

“Hey Bess, everything alright?” he breathed, leaning out of the window slightly and tucking his gun against his thigh. 

 

Bess' usually immaculate, blonde hair was snatched back into a messy ponytail. She had a loose cotton dress on, and a cardigan thrown over her shoulders; both had dirt smudged on them in several places. She jogged the final few feet over to the car, coming to rest with her hand on the open window. Her other hand clutched the cardigan closed at her neck.

 

“Is Garth with you?” she panted. Her eyes shone yellow in the bright sun, making Sam reflectively flinch away from her. 

 

“Wh- What? No. No, he phoned me this morning, told me to come down.” 

 

Bess whined, sounding more like a wolf than a woman. Her face was deeply lined with worry. It looked like she had been crying.

 

“He’s been gone since yesterday. He went to meet Joe two towns over. Said he might have seen that girl you’re looking for.” She tugged nervously on the chain around her neck. “The boys went over earlier, they couldn’t find his scent anywhere.” 

 

She dragged her fingers through her hair, only making it messier. Clearly she had been holding out hope that Sam would know where Garth was, and without it she seemed to crumple. She stared at Sam with wide, fearful eyes. The stark werewolf shade faded to reveal the gleaming green beneath. In his mind, he could clearly hear Dean's voice, arguing that he couldn’t trust her. Just because she had been an ally once, didn't mean she was now. For all he knew, Bess' pack could have abandoned their pact of non-violence. But Sam knew from experience that just because someone was a Creature didn't mean that they couldn’t make the right choices. And Garth was, well Garth. Part of their weird little family, even if it was in a third cousin twice removed by marriage kind of way.

 

“Get in.” He quickly shifted the truck into reverse, and peeled out of the drive, dust blooming in their wake.

  
  


In a desperate attempt to maintain the illusion of normalcy and not dissolve into an angry, anxious mess, Dean shuffled about in the kitchen. If he focused, moving swiftly from one task to another, his mind wouldn't have the chance to wander to what kind of trouble Sam could be getting into. The next item in his lengthy list of chores and busy-work was dinner.

 

Earlier at lunch, he had been roused from his relaxing shower by the sounds of smoke alarms. Mentally steeling himself for an explosion or demonic incursion, he was instead greeted by a cloud of smoke and the guilty faces of the gruesome twosome quickly disposing of  _ something  _ that had ruined the patina on his cast iron skillet. Considering one was a certified genius and the other an ancient celestial being, you would think they could be trusted alone in a kitchen together. But for the sake of his blood pressure (and cookware), he had revoked kitchen privileges until further notice.

 

This, of course, only ensured that the benign, weaponised curiosity that Castiel and Charlie seemed to generate when they were together was located to another area. After an intense discussion with the angel, Charlie had decided to see if she could modify the map table in the command room to detect the nephilim's power. Dean had decided to leave them to it, when their jargon-laden conversation had made him wonder if he was having a stroke. Hours later he had checked in, only to see Cas glowering at Charlie's laptop. He was apparently trying to recreate the creature’s resonance from memory using a modified oscilloscope from one of the store rooms. This was an achievement in itself, as his desire to have as little interaction with computers as physically possible hadn't wavered under hours of cajoling from both Dean and Sam. Clearly Charlie possessed some Eldrich powers indeed.

 

Dean surveyed the command room. Signs of inhabitants were definitely here,  but there was no sign of Charlie or Cas. There were piles of wires and components strewn over the floor and several empty cups. The offending laptop was propped on a chair, screen blank. A half eaten sandwich seemed to be on a plate underneath the laptop.

 

“Seriously? Animals,” he whispered to himself. Dean wandered closer to the nearest stack of cups, wiggling his fingers and struggling to resist the urge to scoop them all into the sink and be done with it. 

 

It was official. He had become a den mother. Time to hang up the plaid and embrace his inner apron strings. He was barely given a second to ponder on the fact that he was definitely beyond redemption when a dark shape dropped from the ceiling in front of him.

 

He definitely did not shriek. It was more of a shout. A strangled, high pitched shout. Nerves of steel. Dean Winchester has faced the Devil himself and does not scream at jumpscares. The only thing that stopped the imminent heart attack in its tracks was the set of curious blue eyes roughly on level with his. It was a miracle that Dean managed to stop himself before he swung up to punch the threat. Wheezing and swearing, he clutched at his chest, if only to assure himself that his heart hadn't burst out of it. For   some God forsaken reason, Cas seemed to be hanging upside down from the balcony. His wings and arms were extended, his face looking decidedly sheepish.

 

“What the hell are you doing?!” he roared. 

 

Cas blinked at him mildly. He looked slightly put out and shuffled his wings irritably. “I was waiting to scare Charlie,” he said levelley, with a shrug. “I'm sorry if I startled you, Dean,” Cas rumbled, dutifully ignoring the last few seconds to preserve Dean's dignity. 

 

This did not have the desired effect. The hunter opened and closed his mouth a few times, beyond disbelief. Castiel reached out and plucked a very small, white, downy feather from Dean’s hair. He popped it into his jeans pocket, seemingly indifferent to the fact he was currently hanging upside down.  

 

“Why?!” Dean bellowed, slightly hysterical. He threw up his hands. The elder Winchester was quickly racing towards being one hundred percent done with angels and their weirdness. This was not what he had signed up for at all. 

 

Cas shrugged. The angel apparently didn't have an explanation for why he was playing pranks on Charlie. 

 

Heart still pounding, Dean took a few calming breaths. He held up his hands to silence any further dialogue, hoping to get back to some kind of rational thought. Maybe if he had seen Cas jump out on Charlie, he could have found the whole situation hilarious, but the truth was, Dean was unnerved. Hell, the last time he had seen Cas engage in any kind of shenanigans was when he was completely unhinged. That wasn't to say that he wasn’t playful or silly in his own way, but this just seemed completely out of character. And surely any sudden change in behaviour was a reasonable thing to be concerned about? It wasn't like Dean was worrying about nothing. He chewed on his lip. 

 

Maybe being cooped up was doing more harm than good . . . But then again, maybe Sam was right. Maybe Cas was just more relaxed around them now, they had spent more time together in the previous weeks than they ever had. And what kind of shitty friend would he be if he made Cas feel like he shouldn’t be enjoying himself? Chuck sake, what he wouldn’t give for a simple problem with a simple solution for a change. Nevertheless, Dean was part-way through planning how best to implement a mental health intervention when his train of thought abruptly derailed.

 

“Where did you get that shirt from?” He pointed at Cas’ now grey-clad torso. It was a long-sleeved henley, unbuttoned at the neck. 

 

With a grin Castiel twisted to one side, almost knocking Dean over with his wing as he did so. He pointed at the hem of the shirt which was secured with a button underneath each wing. Which presumably was the only thing keeping it from rolling down over his head, now he was upside down.

 

“Charlie. She makes all her outfits for Comic-Con, apparently,” Cas said fondly. 

 

Dean flapped his arms to bat the wing away from himself as Cas twisted back around. The elder Winchester sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and mumbling  _ of course she does.  _ The angel cocked his head speculatively and Dean almost choked out a laugh. His little head tilt was even more ridiculous upside down. They stared at each other awkwardly, Castiel wondering if Dean was going to start shouting again, and Dean wondering if it was too early to hit the spirits. 

 

“So you’re going to wait, hanging upside down, until she comes back?” he wondered aloud, with a raise of his brow. He noted that Cas’ face was already a little flushed from being inverted, but otherwise he didn’t seem to be uncomfortable at all, considering his bare feet were hooked over the ironwork of the balcony.

 

“No, I’ll sit on the balcony,” Cas said, dropping a silent  _ obviously _ , with a roll of his eyes. 

 

Dean sighed, again. The skin on the on the bridge of his nose was pink from his repeated pinching. He watched as Cas rolled his shoulders and fanned his wings, causing his shirt to roll down a little more, before the buttons stopped it. A few lines of his warding tattoo was just peeking out. Dean coughed, jerking his eyes away. He reached out to straighten a small covert feather that was jutting out at an odd angle and begging for his attention.

 

“Well, it’s good to know you’re enjoying yourself buddy, but next time, how about you check it’s Charlie first,” he suggested with almost painful cheeriness, deciding that now was not the time to address the breakdown Cas may or may not be having. “I almost clocked you.” 

 

He stopped, Winchester senses tingling. Something here wasn't quite right and Castiel was definitely throwing off a sense of forced indifference. Smoothing Cas' feathers had become an automatic action, allowing his mind to wander.  Stubbornly, it refused to let him focus on anything other than the startled look on Cas' face when he had dropped from the balcony. Which didn’t make sense. He had been the one to jump out, he shouldn't have been surprised. He should have easily been able to tell it was Dean, even if he hadn't seen him. Hell, he could tell who was home and roughly where they were by using air pressure or some nonsense.  _ Bingo. _ Dean carefully arranged his face into one of neutral benevolence, smiling a little as he carded the feathers gently.

 

“How come you didn't know it was me, Cas?” his voice low and conversational, but there was no mistaking the silent assurance that smart answers would not be tolerated. 

 

Cas stayed silent. The plumes under Dean's fingers flattened marginally. Ah ha! Dean gloated internally, taking almost all of his self control not smirk. He was just too good at this; he might only have a GED but he could write a thesis on Cas' little idiosyncrasies. Surprisingly, there was no answer to his question. He looked to Cas out of the corner of his eye and raised his eyebrows again, humming. 

 

Castiel had the blank look of mild panic he so often wore when stuck between Dean and a hard place. His lips were pulled in a tight line and he seemed to be weighing up his options. His hand drifted to the back of his neck.

 

“I fell asleep,” he mumbled gravely. 

 

“I'm sorry, what now?” Dean eyed the cast iron railings before swinging to stare at Cas incredulously. “You fell asleep? Up there?! Jesus Christ, do you have a death wish?!” 

 

Cas winced, pulling his wings tighter to himself and away from Dean's flailing hands. He realised, too late, that he probably should have pre-emptively applied his 'stop Dean shouting face'. 

 

The elder Winchester ran his hands through his hair roughly. He clenched his jaw, desperately trying to resist the urge to shout ' _ what is wrong with you?'  _ and wondering if he could get away with it anyway without being too offensive. Although it seemed he was mentally screaming loudly enough for Cas to get the message and look suitably repentant. 

 

“Perching is very relaxing, Dean,” Cas intoned with the utmost seriousness. 

 

Dean took a very deep breath, covering his mouth with his hand. He counted to ten, and then counted to ten again for good measure. “Of course it is. You know what, fine. Carry on. Just don't fall off and crack your head open.” He turned to walk back to the kitchen before remembering why he had ventured out in the first place. “Do you and Tweedledee know what you want for dinner?”

 

“No. I’m sure anything you make will be lovely, Dean.” 

 

Knowing this was outright manipulation by flattery did not lessen the effect. A smile teased at Dean’s mouth. He was about to aim a sarcastic comment back, when he saw Cas tense up. He was reaching for a weapon before his brain caught up with him. This was not Castiel responding to a threat.

 

“She’s coming back!” he hissed. 

 

The hunter shook his head in disbelief, but found himself watching in fascination as Cas folded himself back up to the balcony. Performing an odd combination of a crunch and a squat upside down. Somehow, he managed to pull himself back up into a standing position on the outside of the railings. Dean could only see a small section of Cas’ torso under his shirt, but that didn't make the rippling wave of tense muscles any less impressive. And despite his earlier assurance to Charlie, he definitely did notice Cas’ thighs now. There was a distinct possibility that they were going to bust right of his jeans. Seriously. It was like watching a Chippendale dancer. Not that Dean had ever done that. What the fuck.  _ What the fuck. _

 

Dean hurried back into the kitchen, because he had dinner to cook. He was not fleeing the scene. Safely back in the kitchen, he now saw how Cas had pulled his wings around himself to hide. The dark, staining mass of black feathers was hardly inconspicuous. With an irritated ruffle, they fluffed and seemed to grow lighter, reflecting the light around them. He was now a slightly less noticeable grey smudge on the balcony. 

 

It must have worked, because several minutes later — while Dean was angrily whipping a cheese sauce into existence — a shriek echoed around the bunker, followed by Castiel’s deep laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> susurruswant@gmail.com


	13. Chapter 13

Dean came to consciousness with a strange feeling of wrongness, but not enough to throw him into immediate alertness. Instead, he floundered in a sleepy haze, flailing at the pillows and blankets that had knotted around his arms. His first half-way rational thought was,  _ ‘Jesus Christ it’s cold, I hope the furnace isn't broken.’ _ He groaned. The grumpy and still very sleepy part of him wanted to fold himself back under the blankets and deal with it in the morning. As stealthily as possible, he stretched his arm out behind him to see if he could feel out the edge of Cas’ wing and pull it over him. Those feathery dead-weights were a guarantee that he would be toasty till morning. Instead of feathers or even the immovable slab of radiant heat that was a sleeping Castiel, he found cold, empty sheets. The effect was akin to a bucket of ice water down his spine.

 

He twisted upright and scanned the room. There was no sign of Cas. The door was open a crack and he could just make out the dim evacuation lights of the corridor that remained on all night. A dull flicker of light from the phone on bedside table told him that, logically, Cas had likely just gotten up to get himself a drink or to take a leak. Even if he had never done that in the entire time he had been staying in Dean’s room. Every day for the past three weeks. 

 

The elder Winchester stalked down the hall, a little faster than was probably necessary. He hissed Cas’ name as he slunk around the bunker, not wanting to wake Charlie. Even after each check of the rooms and bathrooms came up empty, he refused to engage the treacherous voice at the back of his mind. Everything was fine. Had to be fine. This was clearly just a natural escalation of his anxious coddling. Probably because he had been cooped up so long. As a last ditch idea, he padded up the back stairs to the workroom that Sam had set up for the angel. He had been using it more and more as the weeks went on. 

 

Castiel was hunched over the desk. The copper bowl with a cheerily burning feather cast most of the room in harsh contrasts of shadows and light. His wings were folded down, feathers flat, and looked as though they were braced against the table on either side of him. Because of how he was sitting, Dean couldn’t read his expression. He could see the bright silver streak of a blade resting against tanned skin. And blood. 

 

“Fuck!” he yelped as he barrelled into the room, every single fear that had been boiling over at the back of his mind suddenly exploding into the moment. 

 

Two blue eyes turned to him, wide and surprised. Dean had intended to disarm Cas. Get the blade away from him and then start shouting. Maybe even slap the stupid shit silly, because this was not what he’d signed up for, but his sleep-heavy limbs did not cooperate entirely. Instead of the perfectly executed tackle and slide, he collided with both Castiel and the chair he was sitting on, sending them both crashing to the floor in a heap so hard that the furniture shook. 

 

His wings flailed madly as they toppled to the floor, knocking several items off the table. By some miracle of control on Cas’ part, they did not sharpen on the way down. He wheezed, struggling to breathe with most of Dean’s weight resting on his ribs. Dean himself could barely form words, mostly out of sheer outrage, but also having managed to wind himself on the way down. One of his legs had smashed against the chair when they hit the deck, and it was was now alternating between stinging enough to make his eyes water and being oddly numb. An angry growl did service as both an outlet for the pain and an aggressive accusation. 

 

His face was arranged with such a sharp coldness and anger that Castiel had to resist the urge to try and shrink away from him. He wasn’t sure what he had done to provoke his friend into such an outright display of aggression. Dean was still holding Cas’ wrist with enough pressure to bruise even though the angel had let go of the knife almost immediately, and it was now resting limply against his palm. It was only when Cas raised his bloody hand in nervous submission that Dean realised he was being downright threatening. He released Cas’ hand like it had burned him. Deep red marks were already blooming there. The sudden feeling of nauseating guilt only worsened when Cas carefully raised his chin, exposing the line of his throat like a predator submitting to a rival. 

 

“Hello, Dean?” he rumbled softly, voice as level and measured as ever. 

 

This made the quiet, observant part of Dean’s brain wonder if this show of submission was merely an act to diffuse him. The rest of him was too busy spluttering back towards indignation. “Hello?!” 

 

Cas raised an eyebrow, silently conveying that  _ yes that was the option he was going for, _ and  _ really, are we doing this again? _

 

Dean rocked back on his haunches, putting some space between them. He opened and closed his mouth a few times; he was definitely not awake enough for this kind of conversation.

 

“What- What the hell, Cas?” he finally snapped. Blunt it was going to have to be. 

 

Castiel grumbled something in the back of his throat that definitely sounded too much like,  _ I could ask you the same thing, _ for someone currently flat on their back.

 

“Warding, Dean. I was warding myself. You know, a tattoo, we all have them.” He seemed unable to stop the sarcasm leaking into his words. Self preservation instincts apparently only go so far. ”What on earth did you think I was doing?” 

 

He carefully catalogued the cascade of expressions that seemed to flow over Dean’s face, searching for the meaning in the small twitch of his brows and clenching of his jaw. Cas’ eyes flicked down to his bloodied hand and recalled the look of almost apoplectic anger Dean had been wearing. And yet beneath it all, he could still feel the boiling sensation of fear and sadness leaching from the man.  _ Oh. _

 

“Yeah,” Dean grunted. 

 

In any other circumstances, the way Cas’ face exploded into sudden wide-eyed understanding might have been comical. A soulful little sigh escaped him. Dean looked away. He kneaded at the tired skin around his eyes with the heel of his hand. Heaving himself upright silently, he massaged some life back into his thighs. Still refusing to meet Cas’ eyes, Dean leaned down to hook a hand under his shoulder to pull him upright. 

 

Cas dropped the knife neatly into the flaming bowl to cleanse the blade. He leaned against the edge of the table, brows pinched with concern. He wasn't sure what to say at the best of times when Dean got strangely emotional. He was even less sure now. He didn't know why Dean would think that he would want to hurt himself. With his back to him, Dean squatted to scoop up the few items that had been scattered. He continued to stare resolutely at his feet while Cas watched him anxiously. The angel fiddled with a few items on the table, rearranging them into a pleasing grid pattern without really realising that he as doing it. He wanted to finish the design on his hand. The cuts were not particularly deep but he had been at it for over an hour and it was aching horribly. 

 

“Aren’t you going back to bed?” Cas asked mildly.

 

“Oh yeah, should be easy to just drop back off after that. Nearly had a goddamn heart attack.” 

 

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Castiel watched him from slightly downcast eyes, doing his best to look abashed. A few of the lines of Dean’s face relaxed. Knowing it was a gamble, he decided to press the hunter a little further. Hoping to understand what had caused Dean to lurch to such an outlandish conclusion, when usually he was so good at reading him. 

 

“Why did you think I was going to hurt myself?” 

 

The elder Winchester didn't answer. 

 

“Dean?” 

 

When he failed to answer a second time, he stepped up into Dean’s space, into his  _ personal space,  _ and asked him again. The pain was throbbing down most of his right side now and his usually level temper had all but evaporated. Dean was still refusing to answer him and obstinately staring at the floor. Scowling darkly, Cas grabbed his chin and yanked his head up, forcing Dean to meet his eyes. He was rewarded by having his hand slapped away - thankfully his good hand - and a positively venomous glare angled back at him. He let the rage and indignation wash over him with a shrug of his shoulders. Neither one of them wanted to back down from this battle of wills. 

 

“Dean,” Castiel growled. He was absolutely not in the mood for this shit. A part of him was considering bodily hauling Dean out of the room, and maybe giving him a few matching bruises for his troubles. Whether his disturbingly accurate Cas barometer had picked up on this sudden swing towards physical violence, or he had simply started to feel guilty again, Dean took a step back. Surprisingly he raised both hands in surrender, a gesture Cas usually assumed. 

 

He cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. “Look, you’ve been acting weird, okay? And I don't mean angel weird. You know I’m on board with letting your freak flag fly while you’re on your little celestial timeout. I’m talking covered in bees weird.” He paused, flushing slightly at the particularly graphic memory. 

 

“One minute you’re having panic attacks, the next you're dancing around with Charlie and hanging upside down from the ceiling? I thought you were inches away from having some kind of breakdown!” He flailed his arms in exasperation, trying to convey his frustration without actually directing it at his friend. He almost couldn't cope with the way Cas was staring at him now. His mouth was small, slack, and turned down, eyebrows peaked in a sad frown. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you’re fine. Don't look at me like that. I jumped the gun. I guess I’m just on edge,” he snapped, turning to paw at some of the trinkets stacked in boxes on Cas’ desk. He didn't need to see the pity on his friends face, the worry. He didn't need someone to tell him that he was being a neurotic mess. He didn't turn around when he heard the quiet scuff of Cas taking his seat. 

 

“You gonna be at it much longer?”

 

“Another thirty minutes maybe? I’m almost done.” 

 

Dean hummed and perched himself on the desk, carefully folding his arms to hide the slight shake that was quickly arriving now that the adrenaline was wearing off. He arranged his face in a defiant glower, daring Cas to tell him to go back to bed, but the angel never looked up. He had retrieved the small knife and was carefully cutting notches into an existing cut.

 

“Wouldn’t it be easier buying a tattoo gun off of amazon or something? It looks pretty fucking barbaric to be carving up your hand like that. What if it gets infected?” Dean queried, watching the angel out of the corner of his eye. 

 

“The ink is far too thick. Besides, this is how tattoos have been done since the beginning of human civilization. I’ve done a variation of this design at least eight times.” 

  
“What kind of warding is it?” 

 

Cas sighed. Dean was clearly in one of  _ those _ moods. Excellent. “It’s . . . complicated.” 

 

Unsatisfied with this answer, Dean scooted a few objects around on the desk, disrupting Cas’ orderly placement and smiling mildly at the glare it got him. 

 

“It will allow me to store energy from shed feathers under my skin. I’ll be able to retain and manipulate minute amounts energy, meaning I won't be completely powerless.” 

 

“That sounds useful.” Dean paused, wondering whether he should press further. “But I gotta ask, what’s the catch? Because, from my experience, nothin’ in life is free.”

 

“The catch is that I am permanently disfiguring my vessel for the ability to use a paltry amount of power from some broken, old feathers that I will no doubt need at a later date. It's nowhere near as impressive as it sounds. Parlour tricks at most,” he grumbled, shrugging. “It’s insurance.” 

 

He didn't say that part of the reason he had rushed out to do this now was because of Sam. Something about the younger Winchester going off on his own had filled him with dread. He didn't want Dean to know just how worried he was. He didn't say how much it was costing him to finally commit to doing something like this, after almost a decade of self loathing and insecurity. 

 

Dean watched with some interest as Cas continued to slice at his hand, occasionally dabbing at it with gauze. There wasn’t a design drawn onto his skin, so he must have been doing it from memory. The red oozing lines traced angular shapes around his fingers, knuckles, the back of his hand, and wrist. Outwardly he didn't seem too bothered by the pain of cutting into his own flesh, but his jaw was clenched tight and his shoulders stiff. After watching him for a while, Dean realised that maybe Cas wasn’t as alert as he let on. More than a few times the blade (which looked like some bizzare love child of an angel blade and scalpel) dug a little too deeply, making him mutter darkly under his breath in Enochian and resort to using some kind of styptic powder to staunch the bleeding.

 

Cas patted at the last cut he had scored, dropping the gauze when he finished into the copper bowl of fire. He sighed, mentally steeling himself for the next part. It had been a long time since he had done this, but he remembered quite well how much the next two parts hurt. The tiny blade was placed down with a loud click. Castiel watched with little interest as the blade at the end of the long, pencil thin handle relaxed into a tiny, silver feather. 

 

Seeming to sense his apprehension, Dean leaned over into his space, palming the vodka bottle from the clutter and placing it in Cas’ unresisting hand. He rocked the bottle in his hand for moment before giving Dean a flitting smile. It crinkled at the corners of his eyes and one side of his mouth, reflecting almost immediately on the hunter’s own face. The excessively long swig that Cas took from the bottle quickly changed this into one of surprise. 

 

The next half an hour passed in a blur for Cas. The thick, gritty compound that he was using as the ‘ink’ of the tattoo contained, among other things, salt, powdered feathers, silver nitrate, mineral powders, and holy oil. It was a terrible combination of stinging, scratching, burning and aching. It was a thick white paste that turned deep black when it touched his skin. Of course Dean had poked his finger into the pot of ink at this point out of interest, remarking when the mixture retained its bright white shade that feathers must be involved somehow. He was definitely pleased at what he considered was a Sherlockian deduction. A self satisfied smirk teased at his features while he knocked back another swig of vodka. Cas did not appreciate the surprisingly chipper questions that followed this discovery, nor did he enjoy Dean’s commentary on the coarseness of the paste and how it must sting quite a bit. At this point Cas decided to give up and take a break. His entire arm was throbbing and everything from his temples down were tense and aching. After another long pull of Vodka, which he spilled when Dean slapped his shoulder in commiseration, he continued. 

 

Once all the thin cuts had been smeared in the now black paste, Castiel sat and stared at his hand. Had he not known that he was completely disconnected from his powers, he would have suspected that he had stepped outside of time for a while. The next part was definitely the worst. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Dean had begun to fiddle with the small pile of gauze, clearly thinking that Cas would need his hand wrapped now. Realising how much of a fit his friend was going to pitch if Cas had to stop and explain what he was going to do next was the catalyst he needed to override the species-deep fear of holy fire. At least for a second. Clenching his fist, he thrust it into the flames of the copper bowl. The holy oil in the ink caught and burned. He hardly noticed Dean leap to his feet; he was probably shouting and swearing. Cas couldn't hear him. The only sound was the roar of the fire. Being a creature of fire, he had a certain kinship with it. He could feel it whispering to him. Telling him to let it take him over. Let the flames consume him and it would be all over. He blinked and it was gone. He thrust his hand into a bucket of water. 

“Does it hurt?” Dean asked curiously after he had calmed down. His thumb hovered over one of the smooth black lines. “It’s still a little red and raised but there’s no way I’d believe you just carved this into your hand if I hadn’t seen it. It’s really beautiful, man,” he added, almost to himself. The tips of his ears flushed. Was that a weird thing to say? For some reason it threw Dean into a loop, wondering if he had somehow crossed a line by using  _ beautiful _ to describe his best friend. 

 

Cas watched his face carefully for a second, not sure if he was being teased. 

 

“Yes, it’s definitely tender. Kind of prickly and raw,” he said thoughtfully, wiggling his fingers a little. 

 

Dean gently let go of his hand, watching as Cas extinguished the feather with a stiff flick of his wrist. “Think you’ll be able to get some shut eye?” he asked suddenly, feeling the need to fill the silence. Power through the awkward, Winchester. 

 

“Urgh, yes. I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon,” Cas grumbled, rubbing at his shoulders with his unmarked hand. His wings twitched and shuffled irritably, bumping into Dean’s back.

 

“Probably the adrenaline wearing off,” Dean added redundantly, realising too late that Castiel probably knew more about human bodies than he did. The elder Winchester padded off towards the kitchen, leaving Cas to wander back towards the room on his own. He was irritably fiddling with the pillow on his side of the bed when he heard Dean reappear. 

 

“Hot or cold?” 

 

“What?”

 

“Heat pad or ice pack? Which one do you want? If it was a regular burn I’d say ice pack, but I know you guys like heat so. . .” He presented the two packs to Cas sheepishly. Smother levels were at their peak. Yep, he was definitely beyond saving. Seriously, was he going to start carrying bandaids and tissues around in his pocket? The momentary feeling of self loathing quickly evaporated when the angel turned to stare at him. It took a lot of self control not to grin like an idiot when Cas’ beaming, appreciative smile washed over him. 

 

“Thank you, Dean,” he said softly, too tired to let all but the barest feeling of appreciation ooze from him. “Heat will definitely help things heal faster in this case.” 

 

With a nod, the elder Winchester tossed the ice pack at the console table and shuffled to sit against the headboard. Cas was surprised when instead of handing over the heat pad, Dean, with exaggerated care, took his hand and pressed it to the tender flesh. They spent several long minutes in comfortable silence. Castiel found his eyes drifting closed, soothed by the heat and gentle pressure as Dean moved the pad around to reach every aching line. 

 

“How have you not got bored of looking after me by now?” he all but whispered in the stillness. 

 

Dean stopped. He stared down at his friend, which, now that he thought about it, was a pretty strange way for two friends to sit. Castiel was laying on his stomach, wings folded neatly on his back and spilling over onto Dean’s legs. Dean was sat up against the headboard with Cas’ newly tattooed hand cradled in his lap. 

 

“Okay, suddenly I’m concerned again. Where’s this coming from?” he said tensely, trying and failing to keep any anger from his voice. 

 

“I just don’t see Charlie or Sam getting up in the middle of the night to check on me. You make sure I eat when I forget, straighten my feathers, help me sleep. . . “ Unusually, Cas wouldn't meet his gaze. He was staring resolutely at nothing in particular. 

 

“Do you not want me to?” he murmured, beginning to sweep the heat pad over Cas’ hand again.

 

“No. No. I just, don't want you to feel obligated to-”

 

“I’m gonna go right ahead and stop you there, buddy,” Dean snapped, the familiar brusque tone overtaking him, making Cas wonder if he had imagined that small whispering voice in the first place. “I know I’m not obligated to do anything. Look, its not a chore. I like looking after people. It’s one of the only things I’m any good at that doesn't revolve around-”

 

“An uncanny talent for violence and destruction?” Castiel deadpanned. He chuckled bitterly. “I know how that feels.”

 

Dean scowled. Cas wasn't wrong. Between them, they did seem to have a knack for instigating calamities of cosmic proportions. People they cared for always seemed to get hurt. And while Dean had accepted this truth of himself a long time ago, he was at times unsure that the good he did even balanced the ledger; a part of him objected to having Cas grouped with him. Castiel might do the wrong thing, but it wasn't his fault. He always tried to do the right thing. But Dean? Selfishness and fear had coloured his decisions more times than he could count. Out of the two of them, he was sure that Cas had yet to outrank him on the ‘fuckups of epic proportions’ championship. 

 

The heat pad was starting to cool now. He continued to move it slowly over the lines of Cas’ hand. Not that he had doubted the angel, but the heat definitely seemed to have had an effect. Some of the redness had faded, although the marks were still raised. He wondered if they would remain that way or eventually become smooth like his own tattoo. He didn't resist when Cas pulled his hand away, holding it inches away from his face. 

 

He seemed to be carefully inspecting the linework. It reminded Dean of Sam’s revelation that Cas apparently couldn't see that well at all. He considered offering up his glasses, but the last time he had joked along those lines he had nearly lost his fingertips. 

 

“Do you know, I’ve not even attempted to do sigil work since before I was injured,” Cas said suddenly. He sounded a little dazed and surprised to hear himself say it. He flexed his hand. “I’ve used old spells, sigils I’d made years before. There’s no talent in the usage them. But making new spells, reshaping and bending pure celestial energy to your will, it requires a certain strength and skill.” He chewed at his lip, drawing a decisive breath. 

 

“I . . . I was so afraid to try. In case I couldn't do it anymore. Because it was the only thing I was ever any good at. And if you took that away, what was left?” Cas whispered hoarsely. He turned to face Dean. 

 

He looked equal parts horrified and afraid. Whether this was because of his confession or the fact that he had actually said it out loud was unknown. It reminded Dean of the heartfelt confession when they had thought Castiel was dying. For someone who was closer than family, Dean could count on one hand the amount of times Cas had opened himself up like this. Instinctively, he knew this was somehow different from the angel lore and mysticism that they had been coaxing from him over the last month. This was something deeply personal, likely something Cas hadn't told another soul. This was not something he could casually share with Sam or Charlie. 

 

“You have to understand, angels who rebel, they are destroyed. I was not. I was useful. For all my insubordination, I was worth something, because of what I could do.” 

 

The robotic, flat tone that overtook Cas made his blood run cold. Dean cringed. He struggled to swallow around the thickness in this throat. Lost for words, he tried to express in their private little language of touch, prayer, and feelings the sadness that had overtaken him. There were no words to say how sorry he was. No way to scream to the universe that Cas didn't deserve that and it should never have happened. He reached out and pulled Castiel towards him. Unfortunately, due to their different positions, he ended up in a rather lopsided hug, pressing the angel’s head to his chest.  

 

This revelation suddenly made everything click into place. Of course Dean had often wondered how an angel like Cas had managed to become the leader of a garrison and mount the assault into Hell, when by all accounts he was an absolute liability. He remembered vividly how Castiel had described his suffering at the hands of Naomi. Dean had, at the time, wondered what horrible transgressions he had committed to earn this extended torture. Surely it would have been more merciful just to put Cas out of his misery? Even Cas didn't know how many times he had been ‘corrected’. Large portions of his memories were still lost. 

 

Dean honestly didn’t think it could have gotten any worse, being treated like that by your ‘family’. But this, this was just an entirely new level of pain. Knowing you are allowed to exist purely to perform a function. To be useful. To be a tool. No wonder Cas had been so keen to prove that he wasn’t just a hammer. Cas’ crippling self worth issues, his struggle to find his identity and place in the world . . . And how many times had he himself poured salt on those wounds? How many times in years gone by had Dean reduced Cas to nothing more than a means to an end? 

 

Dean Winchester was used to the world being a dumpster fire. He was used to cruelty. He had never had the illusion that there was a justice or fairness in the world, but in that moment he was enraged.  _ How could they do this? _ Bile burned in his throat and he felt dizzy. 

 

Something soft and cool brushed against his cheek. One of Cas’ silvery alulas was now resting against his jaw. Shit, was he crying? God, the exhaustion and stress of being paranoid as fuck must finally be getting to him. Yeah, that must be it. Hurriedly scrubbing at his traitorous eyes, he shot Cas a look that was both apologetic and slightly threatening. Because regardless of the circumstance, he still had what little dignity remained, and Winchesters absolutely did not sob pathetically while hugging their best friend in the middle of the night. 

 

“Sorry I-” he trailed off, mumbling a series of curses under his breath. He was going to have to say this very carefully. This was one of those times where he couldn't afford to mess things up, but how on Earth was he supposed to help Cas when he couldn't even help himself? How could he turn around and lecture the angel on self worth, when he couldn't even muster it himself on the best of days? He had often wondered if he could have been a better role model for Cas. Shown him the value in himself sooner, showed him something, anything, other than self hatred and depression. He sighed.

 

“Look, Cas, I’m not going to say that this doesn't matter. I don't really understand, but it clearly means a lot to you. You know me, Sam, Charlie and even mom will help you any way we can. If that is what you want. Whatever you need, we got your back. You’re part of this family, Cas, no matter what you can do. You are more important than any spell you could dream up or injuries you can heal. You don’t have to be useful.” 

  
  
  


The Winchester Hotline phone trilled from the console table. Cas had insisted on transporting them around the bunker, dutifully intoning that he had promised Sam the calls would be answered in his absence. Dean stomped over, clicked decline and threw it back down. He returned to his sofa with a scowl. Seconds later, the phone began to ring again. He swore under his breath. Cas leaned forward, placing a soothing hand on Dean’s arm. 

 

“I'll get it.” Cas started towards the ringing phone. 

 

Dean grumbled and looked doubtful, but he wasn't in the mood to argue. He turned back to the TV, a scowl still hanging heavily on his face. Charlie obligingly lifted her feet to allow Cas up, having sprawled her legs across both Dean and Cas as they settled down to watch a movie. He ruffled his feathers, stretching slightly now he was stood. Dean didn't even bother jerking his head to try and see around them as they eclipsed the screen, he hadn't been really watching for a while now. Cas answered the phone as soon as he passed through the door, his deep voice still reverberating softly through the room. 

 

“Winchesters,” he rumbled. The other voice was a incoherent mumble. Rather than retreat to another room, he had opted to lean leisurely against the wall in the corridor. He was just visible from the corner of Dean’s eye. 

 

“No. I’m afraid they aren’t available right now. Perhaps I can be of service?” 

 

“Castiel. Yes. Castiel Winchester.” 

 

Dean only realised a smile was teasing at the corner of his mouth when Cas caught his eye with a conspiratorial wink. 

 

“Yes, I am aware it is a strange name. . . Yes. That one. The angel. Unfortunately, yes. . .No, I am not going to do that. There are plenty of pictures of wings on google.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, the first hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. “Look, either you get to the point, or I’m hanging up. 

 

“Yes. It is a virtue. In fact, I possess surprisingly few of those. Hmm, yes. That sounds like,” he paused, a little chuckle escaping him. He glanced pointedly at Dean again through the doorway. “A werepire. Yes, were-pire. Like a vampire and werewolf hybrid. Some folklore refers to them as a Whisper. We encountered them a few years back...” 

 

The elder Winchester missed the rest of the angel’s conversation, as Charlie took this moment to pepper him with questions about werepires. Mostly about how she didnt believe that was actually their name. Dean stuck to his guns, struggling to conceal his self satisfied smirk and fielding a few of the more esoteric questions. 

 

Castiel returned after a while, unceremoniously dropping a bowl of popcorn into Dean’s lap. He delicately scooped up Charlie’s fuzzy-socked feet and folded himself back into the chair. “What?” he sighed, cocking a brow. Dean had been smirking at him out of the corner of his eye for the last five minutes. 

 

“You said it,” he smirked. 

 

Cas chuckled, waving away Charlie’s confused stare. He would happily say every stupid word or phrase Dean could think up, if only to keep a smile like that on his face. 

  
  


Of course the universal law of cosmic balance came into play later that afternoon. The general principle of this is that any positive emotion experienced by anyone in the Winchester clan would be followed by a swift karmic punch to the face. Or that was what Dean secretly believed. His reward for having a relatively peaceful and stress-free afternoon with his two best friends, watching movies and shooting the shit, was to have his world turned upside down.

 

They were in the kitchen when with no warning, Cas snapped his wings out to full extension, or as close to full extension as he could manage in the cramped space. The percussive sound caused Charlie to crash to the floor in an undignified heap, having not had time to adjust to the infrasound like Dean. Dean had the misfortune of being within arms length of the angel, and received a sucker-punch of feathers to the jaw. He landed heavily, swearing and wheezing, as the air was knocked from his lungs. Seeing stars was an understatement and his ears were ringing so loudly he could hardly hear himself curse. 

 

Castiel didn't seem to notice. He had one hand pressed to his head with a look of intense concentration on his face. His wings were held stiffly aloft, although he was making small, jerky adjustments to their position. His feathers were twitching and flicking in some kind of rippling wave. From the floor Dean aimed a kick at his ankle. 

 

“What the fuck, Cas!” he snarled, hoisting himself up and dragging Charlie with him. He cradled his jaw in one hand, the entire side of his face burning. He wouldn't be surprised if something was broken. It felt like he had been hit with a sledgehammer.

 

“I . . . I heard Sam.” 

 

“What?!”

 

“I think he was praying, but it wasn’t clear.” He grasped Dean’s arm, shaking him slightly. “I’m going up to the roof. See if I can hear any better without the warding 

interfering.”

 

“Woah, woah, woah. What’s going on. Is something wrong with Sam?”

  
  
  


“I got nothing,” Charlie said stiffly. “His phone has been in the same place for hours. There’s been no police dispatch of anything suspicious or John Doe reported that match Sam’s description. Is there any chance you could be wrong?” 

 

She absently typed a few notes. Less than thirty minutes in and they were already drawing a blank. Dean had tried to get hold of Bess or Garth, and thrown his phone across the room when they had both rang out. It hadn’t gotten any better from that point onwards. 

 

“No. It was definitely Sam,” Cas said firmly. He wanted more than anything to be wrong, but it’s not like he could easily mistake Sam or Dean’s prayers. “Dean,” Cas said gently, “Dean, I know you’re worried but you can't just charge off.” 

 

The angel reached out to gently take the hunters arm as he passed, but he threw it off with a snarl. He spun on his heel, throwing up his hands and jabbing a hand threateningly in Castiel’s direction. Cas kept his face carefully neutral, knowing all too well that right now even a downward turn of his brows could provoke Dean. He was pacing around the room like a caged animal. Torn between his instincts to protect Sam, Cas, and Charlie, and fueled by an utter lack of knowing what to do. 

 

“If you think-”

 

“Dean, you didn't sleep well last night. It’s a six hour drive. If you leave now, you will be dead on your feet. You won't be in any position to help Sam, if he even is in any danger. Please, I know you’re worried but you’ll be no use to anyone if you fall asleep at the wheel.” 

 

Dean grunted, stalking around the table for the hundredth time. He kicked at one of the chairs and neither Cas nor Charlie flinched. At this point they probably would have been more startled if he didnt assault the furniture.  

 

“Or I could phone Mary, you could drive out together. That way at least one of you will be well rested?” Cas continued soothingly. 

 

As if an internal battery had died, Dean stopped. He went completely still and tense. “No,” he grunted, rapping his knuckles absently on the table. “If mom’s going anywhere, it's here. I can’t leave you and Charlie alone. I’d never forgive myself if something happened.” 

 

Charlie opened her mouth to say that she and Cas didn't need a babysitter, but Cas hurriedly shushed her. She scrunched up her nose but decided it was probably best to follow the angel’s lead. After all, no one knew how to start and stop fights with Dean Winchester quite like Cas. 

 

“I'll stay up, man the computers. I can keep an eye on all the police scanners, traffic cams, and hospital records. That way I can wake you if anything comes in.”

 

“Good idea, Charlie,” Cas said softly, giving her a small smile. He dragged himself to his feet, clapping his hands onto Dean’s stooped shoulders. 

 

Dean was leaning heavily on the library table, staring at the laptop screen as if it held the secret to the universe. For a moment it seemed like he might fight against Cas’ hands. The muscles in his shoulders rippled and Cas found himself bracing for a small scuffle. He was prepared to give Dean that. If he needed to lash out, Castiel wouldn't stop him. Surprising them both, he surrendered with a shrug, allowing himself to be steered to the bedroom. Charlie watched them leave, her face wan and concerned.

 

In his bedroom, all the life seemed to have drained out of Dean. All the frantic energy that had consumed him in the library just fizzled out into nothing. A chill seemed to have seeped into his bones and he felt like he was wading through a fog. A small part of him knew that he was disconnecting from the situation. He had heard John talk about it once, and he had felt it more times than he could count. When the stress and the fear and the pain all seemed like too much, like he couldn't bear one moment more because even breathing was too painful, it just sort of, detached. It was still there and he could still feel it, it just felt like it wasn’t really happening to him anymore. Some nights he laid awake wondering if something had broken irreparably inside him to cause it. It had only gotten worse after he had been cured of the Mark. 

 

Dean had been staring at the bed for several minutes. He couldn't find the motivation to move. Soft, cool hands brushed at his shirt. Cas was unbuttoning his flannel with a carefully tailored look of concern and mild annoyance. Clearly he had gotten sick of waiting for Dean to get in bed. At any other time, Dean would have slapped his hands away and shot a scathing insult his way, but he couldn't summon the energy to care. He watched dispassionately as Cas wrangled him out of the overshirt and neatly folded it on the dresser. He turned back to Dean with a sweeping look that said,  _ if you think i’m fighting those jeans off you, you are sadly mistaken. _ Instead, he pushed and pulled the elder Winchester towards the bed, turning away respectfully when Dean reached for the sweatpants he had left in a heap next to it. They lay in silence, Dean with his back to Cas. 

 

Cas mumbled a quiet goodnight, but received no reply. 

  
  


It was the same. It was always the same. It didn't matter that he whispered hoarsely to himself that it was just a dream. He wasn't back there. Back here. The sulphurous smoke billowed around him, choking him and making his throat raw. Or maybe it was the screaming. He wasn't sure if he was screaming or if it was the tortured souls around him. Dean’s eyes stung. He imagined that tears would spill down his face as he watched his shaking hands, but he was long past that. He just ached. The only thing that made it stop hurting, made him feel anything at all, was when the screaming stopped. It had stopped, at least for a moment. He watched dispassionately as the flayed, humanoid shape before him shuddered and stilled. 

 

His hands were tacky with congealed blood and some unknown, gritty substance. Dean didn't know how long he had been trapped in the disgusting cycle of screaming and silence. He pretended that he didn't care, but he knew that had he kept any record of time, no matter how inaccurate, he would surely lose his mind. So he waited. The soul would be taken away, presumably restored after a time (like he had been) only to be returned to the rack.

 

The booming of thunder interrupted his stillness. He looked up, expecting to see the usual red and black smog. For the first time in countless days, it was different. This made his chest clench painfully with... Fear? Confusion? Hope? He had no idea anymore. The clouds boiled, forming a violently swirling vortex. Lightning flashed within the bloated clouds but didn't seem to break the surface. A noise, louder than anything he had ever heard, high-pitched and fractal, cut through him and made him drop to his knees. Around him demons and souls shrieked and wailed. A great, bright light seemed to be coming from within the cloudbank now. 

 

Strange shapes melted through fog, twisting and turning in the sky. It was slightly nauseating, watching the shifting mosaic of colours as the creatures soared downwards into the pit. The flashes of light and the speed at which they moved made it hard to focus. Dean desperately tried to piece together a shape; there were definitely wings, twisting bodies, and… claws? He thought, somewhat hollowly, that these must be some new kind of demon that he had never seen.

 

He quickly ducked behind a rack when he saw that these invading demons appeared to be immolating the pit-demons. The high pitched ringing sound continued and seemed to be coming from many places, making him wonder if it was the invading demons screeching at each other. A deep green one that looked like it had three wings crashed heavily into the plateau a few levels below him, bursting into white flames moments later and burning into nothingness.

 

Another peal of thunder drew his eyes upwards. At first, he thought that the clouds were clearing and he was seeing the dark sky beyond them for the first time, but as he watched, he realised it wasn't the night sky. It was another flying demon, jet black and hideous. His eyes itched as he focused on it. This was the first shape in the tangled kaleidoscope of limbs and smoke that he could track. It definitely had wings, two of them. Other than that, he couldn't be sure. It twisted in the air like an ink drop in water, slowly descending. It looked like the creature was melting, and after a long minute, he realised that it was. As it got nearer and nearer to him, it was changing shape. A tail, or something like a tail miraculously melded back into the body of the creature. The only shape that didn't change was the two dark wings, although they did appear to be shrinking with the creature. The dark shape landed softly, a few meters away from him.

 

It looked like a man, or with the wings, he supposed, an angel. But not like a living, breathing creature. Every inch of the monster was the same glossy black, like polished obsidian. It reminded him of the classical sculptures he had seen in museums. A sculpture of an angel, or what someone imagined an angel would look like. Its hair was curled in stylised whorls that certainly looked as if they had been chiseled from marble. In his opinion, it was dressed several milleniums late, wearing what might have been the armour circa Caesar. The only thing missing was a fluffy plumed helmet. But even its centurion styled clothing seemed to be made from the same black material as its skin. It turned towards him, surveying the landing. Dean remained completely still, not daring to draw its attention. Whatever it was, and whatever it was selling, he did not want it. 

 

The eyes roved over the racks, disregarding the stilled flesh. They were almost completely black, but not like that of a demon. They were made out of the same substance as its body, black with the only colour being the irises, which glowed blue. It walked briskly towards him, the limbs moving as smoothly as if they were flesh but looking strangely inflexible. As it came closer he could see that there seemed to be a slightly paler marbling to its flesh, making minute patterns and swirls on the otherwise flawless surface. Like damascus steel. It opened its mouth to speak and a blue glow seemed to shine from within. 

 

Dean almost laughed at how glad he was that there were no sharp teeth in its mouth; it was definitely giving off Weeping Angel vibes from Dr Who. Regardless, he was convinced that this was some kind of sentient statue demon, even if he had never heard of one.

 

“Dean Winchester, come,” it said, with no inflexion. 

 

He froze. Apparently even when you are in Hell, your day can get worse. When he didn't move, it extended its hand and flicked a finger dismissively at the rack, launching it across the room. A particularly loud screech from one of the creatures seemed to draw its attention away from him momentarily and Dean lunged forward. The metal of his bloodied blade shattered as he attempted to drive it into the creatures torso. He froze dumbly, holding the useless hilt as it turned back to him. Rather than look enraged, it seemed to be watching him with an almost benign curiosity. The corners of its mouth curled slightly as if it was trying to smile, but hadn't ever really bothered to try before.

 

“Come,” it said again, wrapping its fingers delicately around his wrist. Holding him as if he were made of glass. 

 

When he tried to pull away, more out of habit than anything else, he found that he might as well try and move a mountain. He realised too late that the creature had not one, but two blades of its own, the bright silver shining in sharp contrast to its dark skin. He wondered how on earth he had missed it before and cursed under his breath. One was a long, thin sword, unusually shaped and hanging on its right hip. Hanging next to it was a shorter blade, more akin to a dagger. Both seemed to be attached to the creature somehow as there was no visible scabbard. Fuck. Well, at least if you died in Hell, you died for good. He should probably be afraid but it honestly sounded like a relief.

 

He was suddenly pulled forward so that he actually crashed into the creatures shoulder. He swore. A snarling noise made him turn his head, and before the creature curled a wing around him, he saw that some of the pit demons had approached. It was dark inside the the wall of feathers. He could see several flashes of light and hear the screaming of demons. The wing was pulled away suddenly and he blinked dumbly in the sudden brightness. The winged demon had turned to take on several demons that had approached from behind. It was definitely fighting with a handicap. It refused to move more than a foot from Dean, and repeatedly tried to put its wings between him and the surrounding demons. As ridiculous as it sounded, he quickly realised that the feathers definitely weren't the fluffy kind. More than once he saw them turn away a blade or claws. The other wing soon came into view. It sliced through a demon without any sign of resistance. This was the final straw for Dean. He didn't know why this weird demon wanted him, and he didn't care. This was insane. He waited until it had its back to him and then made a run for it. 

 

In hindsight, this was not a good move.

 

As he darted back towards the racks, hoping to hide in the confusion, he saw that the pit demons were not here for the winged monstrosity. They were here for him. They rushed to follow him. A pit demon, larger than the others — that he recognised by its red blistered skin and branding to be one of Alistair’s pets — stepped into his path. It was holding a sword that looked similar to the one the winged demon had, but it did not shine; this blade was mottled and corroded. Dean knew that this was the end of the line. He had no weapons, nothing to shield himself. He flinched back, arm raised to protect himself for what little good it would do.

 

“Dean!” the odd, flat voice of the winged creature boomed across the landing. 

 

The blow never came. The looming black shape of the statue demon pressed into him. He saw the arc of the blade fall and was caught by its hand. When the scarred sword connected with the black flesh, a sound like breaking glass almost deafened him. Its hand had shattered, like it was made from pottery, revealing a hand-shaped flame. The creature dropped to its knee, its face twisted in pain. The demon smiled, teeth pointed and twisted in a horrible rictus.

 

Acting on instinct and pure, unrestrained spite, as he had done his whole life, Dean saw the silver hilt on the creatures hip and grasped it. It was. . . warm? And seemed to be vibrating under his hand. Hoping that it wasn't glued or something ridiculous like that, he yanked it upwards. The sword sliced through the air and buried itself in Alistair’s demon. If Dean didn't know any better he would have said the blade moved on its own, eager to cut into demonic flesh. There was a burst of orange light, and the demon crumbled into ash and embers.

 

Dean turned to the winged demon, hoping he wasn't going to be destroyed for his insolence. Its stony face was blank and watching him. If he had to guess, he would have said it was a look of utter confusion. Its hand was still just a burning shape where the skin had been shattered. The sound of more demons drew their attention. Dean turned to swipe at an approaching pit demon. The shrill crystal sound the winged demons made seemed to be increasing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a silvery shape falling past their landing, into the lower levels of the pit. The familiar hard-but-strangely-gentle hand hooked under his arm, and before he could turn to threaten the demon a searing hot pain bloomed on his shoulder. It was more painful than anything he had ever felt before. His vision whited out.

 

The pain reduced to a dull ache and Dean found himself rising towards consciousness again. The air around him felt cool and fresh. He was sure that he was laying on grass, soft and damp, but it felt strange. He couldn't quite touch it. Remembering the winged demons and the pain, he opened his eyes a fraction. Hoping to maintain the illusion of sleep. He was definitely not in hell. Instead of the sickly atmosphere of the pit, he could see the night sky. The same brightly coloured winged creatures were twisting around in the sky, miles above. They were chattering? It sounded like the electrical feedback on speakers. Dean couldn't put his finger on it, but he was sure that this was a happy sound.

 

Deciding to bite the bullet and face whatever fresh hell awaited him, he rolled upright. He was right about the grass at least. He was laying in the middle of a large clearing, made larger due to the fact that several meters of trees at the edge of the clearing had been felled. It looked like an bomb had gone off, but the ground underneath him was unmarred. 

 

The statue creature was watching him from a few feet away, head at an angle like a confused dog. It had not reverted to the strange serpentine shape of its comrades. There were several white scuffs on its smooth, ceramic-like skin. The hand that had been shattered was still flaming, but the strange dark flesh around it seemed to be healing slowly. Several inches of flaky looking white stone had extended from the wound. Dean looked at his shoulder. Through the torn shirt he could see a red, raw burn in the shape of a hand.

 

“Fuck,” he whispered, yanking his hand back with a hiss. Silently he applauded himself,  _ Well done genius, a burn hurts. _

 

The creature took a few tentative steps forward, crouching down at his feet. The sheer size of its large black wings meant that it was leaning forward slightly. It took all of Dean’s considerable self control not to shuffle away madly.

 

“Apologies, I didn't mean to cause you any harm. It was imperative that we get out before the gate closed, or risk being stranded,” it said in its deep, hollow voice.

 

“Okay. Great. I’ll save my thanks for when I know where the hell we are and what you want,” he snapped back. 

 

Antagonising a powerful supernatural creature that had just apparently portalled him out of Hell was likely not a good idea, but fuck it. His arm hurt like shit and he was an unlucky bastard. Realistically, he was probably going to end up somewhere worse off. The creature tipped its head even further, and Dean wondered if it was possible it could fall over from sheer confusion. It was strangely familiar. Now that he thought about it, this whole situation felt like one big Deja Vu. A loud crash to his left made him jump and interrupted his musings. Another of the winged creatures had landed in the clearing, rather unsuccessfully.

 

“Bastard!” it swore loudly, attempted to stand, and fell over again. The black creature did not seem pleased. 

 

When it was finally upright, if unsteady, Dean could see that although it had taken a human-like shape, it was vastly different from the black creature. It was a brassy colour, with the same swirling patterns as its companion. It had elected to shape itself nothing more than a simple kilt and what looked like a collection of necklaces. This looked distinctly bizarre as they were moulded onto its bare chest and didn't move when it did. Like the other creature, it had the features of a sculpture, but in a different style. Possibly Egyptian? With long, rigid hair down to its chest, it looked significantly worse off. One wing was hanging lower than the other and was missing a large section of feathers. It too, was covered in the white scuffs and abrasions, which Dean now realised must be the equivalent of a wound. One of its legs was almost completely white, and in some places, the flickering of flames could be seen beneath its skin. But nowhere was the flame completely exposed like the dark ones’ hand. This damage, presumably, was what had caused it difficulty standing.

 

“Balthazar, brother, is there something you need?” the other creature asked, and Dean heard a distinct note of irritation in its echoing voice.

 

“No, no, I’m quite alright Cassie. Just checking in on you.” Its blue eyes were fixed firmly on the black creature’s blazing hand. 

 

The feeling of Deja Vu that had been steadily increasing roared over Dean. His ears were ringing and everything felt fuzzy. He stared dumbly at the two creatures. This wasn't right. He had never seen this before but he knew these two beings. Angels. Castiel and Balthazar. This wasn’t happening now. Balthazar was dead for one. And . . . he had been pulled out of Hell years ago. It must be a nightmare. He always had the same nightmares about Hell but it had never gone like this. Was it a memory? A dream? What in the ever loving fuck was happening to him?

 

“Cas?” he croaked quietly, feeling like the world was shifting under him. 

 

The black angel smiled toothily at him. The classical, neutral features of its face seemed to shift at once into one he recognised. The legionnaire's uniform melted into a rigid copy of his suit and trench coat. The pain in Dean’s shoulder disappeared as if it had never existed. The landscape around him, Balthazar, and the soaring angels above them faded out of focus. Castiel smiled down at him. And it was Cas, definitely. Everything from the backwards tie, the messy hair, and  even the long and well-worn trench coat was perfectly how he remembered. He even had his wings, somehow projecting through his clothing. The only thing that was wrong with the picture at all was that he looked like he had been dipped in pitch. Every part of him was black, except for his blue irises. His flaming hand returned to its undamaged state. Although Cas had turned so it was partially hidden behind his coat, Dean was sure that in the second he had seen it, it had been a dark silvery colour instead of the smooth black of his body.

 

“I wasn’t sure you would be able to enter into a lucid dreaming state. That was quite a resilient nightmare. Understandably, I suppose. I had to work quite hard to infiltrate myself into it, tugging and pulling at your repressed memories. I barely had the strength to do that.” He smiled stiffly, the usual flash of teeth, strange in black.  “Do you . . . often dream of this? Your time here?” he said softly. 

 

The familiar, warm voice of his best friend washed over Dean, and relaxed him more than anything else. A quiet, disbelieving laugh escaped him as he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Castiel had dropped his hand before Dean could think to explore the strange dark skin. He was left with an impression of warmth and smoothness.

 

“Been a while since you’ve paid my dreams a visit, Cas,” he quipped, leaving the angel’s question unanswered.

 

“Yes . . . I hope you don’t mind. You seemed quite distressed. I didn't know what else to do.” Cas watched his face nervously; fiddling absently with his tie and seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was immovable and fixed to his chest. He could feel worry or anxiousness radiating from the angel. 

 

Dean rubbed at his face and cleared his throat. “It’s fine. Thanks.” He paused to look around at the now neutral grey landscape. “So, was that like, all my memories? Or did you pull the whole thing outta your ass?”

 

“These are your memories, yes. When I rebuilt you, I did try to lock as many of them away as I could, to save you the pain.” 

 

Dean hummed thoughtfully.

 

There was an awkward pause as he scrutinized the angel, committing the strange shadow Cas to his memory. He had a feeling that Cas had already revealed more than he wanted to. The angel was definitely uneasy about something; he seemed uncomfortable every time Dean let his eyes rest on his black skin. His wings were pulled tight and twitched endlessly. Dean thought about the twisting shapes of the angels he had seen in the sky, wondering why he couldn't seem to fix the image in his mind. It was more of an impression; he couldn't say for definite anything other than that they had wings. A small, treacherous part of him speculated that Cas might be the reason for this. Quickly burying it, he decided that it was more likely that his simple, human mind could not grasp the ethereal bodies of the angels. That was an excellent theory. Well done Dean, A+ for that one. And it wasn’t like Cas visibly relaxed when he thought that. Nope, that was obviously because of something else. Right? 

 

He coughed. “So, is this what you really look like?”

 

“No. As I’m sure you’ve deduced we have some  . . . fluidity to our shape.” His eyebrow twitched knowingly at Dean, making him aware that in this dream state he probably couldn't hide anything from the angel. 

 

“With enough concentration and energy we can assume whatever shape we please, for a short time anyway. Normally when dreamwalking I would project an image of my vessel, but I’m afraid I don't even have the strength to do that. Thankfully, your consciousness knows me in this form, making it much easier for me to maintain.” His dark eyes watched Dean cautiously. “If it’s distressing for you, I can leave.”

 

“No! No. I mean, come on Cas, I think you’re being a little melodramatic. You’re a different colour, not some kind of Lovecraftian horror.” He stumbled over his words a little, realising too late that for all he knew, Cas might actually look like that. Fuck. “I mean, to be honest dude, you look pretty badass.” He winked, earning him a classic confused blink from Cas. 

 

“So, I’m guessing this is probably the closest I’m going to get to seeing what you really look like?” He extended a hand slowly. “Can I?” 

 

Hesitantly, Cas held out his own pitch black hand. Dean took it reverently, trying to communicate his appreciation of Cas’ trust wordlessly. He let his hands trace the familiar shape. It was smooth, and not as glossy as it appeared. Feeling more like unglazed china. He could feel the heat radiating from within it. With a surreptitious glance at Cas he tapped at the skin with his nail, slightly disappointed that it didn't sound like a plant pot, because that would have been just too much fun. 

 

“What are all these little swirly patterns? They kinda look a little like the stuff you draw.”

 

_ “Eol.  _ They are what makes us,” he said stiffly. His hand twitched nervously and he looked a little ashamed. “It is largely mysterious, angels have spent millenia attempting to decode them. They are a description. They detail everything about the angel, what we are, who we are. The living word of God.” 

 

Dean took a step closer, unthinkingly. He was definitely channeling his inner Sam, but he couldn't help it. He was naturally curious when it came to all things Cas but this was some next level shit. This invasion of his space appeared to relax the angel more than anything Dean had said. It was as if he was surprised that Dean would actually want to get closer to him. He stood, compliantly submitting to Dean’s inspection. Allowing the elder Winchester to gently poke and prod at his skin, curiously try and move his hair or his tie. 

 

Dean released Cas’ hand, realising he had been clasping the black fingers in his fist the whole time. His eyes wandered down to Cas’ right arm, where it as obscured by the fold of his coat.  His expression said in equal parts  _ please,  _ and  _ you don't have to.  _ He still didn't really understand what the injury meant to Cas, other than it caused him considerable distress and some pain. But he knew that he was at least in some way responsible. Part of him was curious, but mostly he just wanted to know. He wanted to see for himself what was hurting his friend so much. To try and see if there was anything he could do. 

 

His breath actually caught as Castiel uncovered the silver hand from the folds of his coat. Haltingly, he placed it into Dean’s awaiting palms. The look of crushing vulnerability made Dean’s chest hurt. Even in the unfamiliar shade, Cas’ features were created in worry and sadness; seemingly waiting for Dean to turn away in disgust. 

 

To his unknowing eye, there wasn't much difference between Cas’ damaged and undamaged skin. While it was distinctly silvery, it was still dark, only a few shades lighter than the Eol. Without knowing, he could have easily attributed it to some variation in colour. Unlike human scars, it was completely smooth and unblemished; there were no creases, cracks, or wrinkles, although he supposed that could be different in Castiel’s true shape. It was not as warm as his black hand. Dean could feel Cas’ eyes burning into him, but he kept his eyes fixed on his hand. After the third sweep of his fingers, he realised why this injury was so traumatic for the angel. The skin was completely smooth, with no Eol. Part of Cas’ very identity had been burned away. He felt the angel tug his hand back softly, but Dean refused to let go. He curled his hand around Cas’ wrist. 

 

“Cas, it’s alright,” he said softly, pulling the unresisting limb back towards him. Cas shuffled his wings and ducked his head. Clearly this was too much, too soon. Dean released his hand and tried not to let it hurt when Cas all but snatched it away from him. Cas was quickly looking like the might be a flight risk. His feathers, although seemingly permanently sharp in this shape, were pulled as flat as they could be and chimed occasionally. In a desperate bid to redirect conversation, Dean pointed at Cas’ face. It was probably best if he kept his hands to himself for the time being 

 

“Are those Eol, or something else? They look different,” he said, fumbling the unfamiliar pronunciation. Underneath Cas’ eyes there were several silvery circles. They were each less than a centimeter in diameter and perfectly round. He wondered if they were the angelic equivalent of freckles. 

 

“No. They are scars, like my hand,” Cas said flatly. 

 

Dean mentally cursed. Which was largely ineffective as Castiel could no doubt hear it anyway. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking fuck. He coughed to cover the rising desire for the ground to swallow him up. 

 

“Oh, they look kind of like . . . tears?” he said nervously. Internally screaming.  _ Jesus Christ,  _ he thought,  _ stop talking Dean you are only making this worse for yourself.  _

 

“Indeed. I was not given that moniker due to my habit of weeping uncontrollably,” Cas said scornfully, drawing a nervous laugh from Dean. 

 

“Yeah, I can’t say I’ve ever seen you cry.”

 

“Angels can’t. My vessel could, but I can’t.” He shrugged, touching one of the silvery spots under his eyes. “‘Corrections’ shouldn’t damage the flesh, but I suppose over time, the river erodes the riverbed.”

  
  


Dean awoke, feeling surprisingly refreshed. He could hear a low thumping sound echoing up the hall and assumed this meant that Charlie was still awake and listening to her god awful music in library again. He turned to the figure next to him in bed. He was surprised to see that Cas was pressed right up against his back, although he was laying on his stomach, only a fraction of his face visible. His hair was stuck up at all angles and Dean wondered for the thousandth time how he managed this, as he was definitely not a wriggly sleeper. In fact, Cas usually woke up in the same position he went to sleep in. Part of Dean wanted to stay awake all night again and see if he could witness this strange transfiguration from neatly brushed to bedhead. 

 

He reached out and very gently touched Cas’ arm. Soft, warm skin, nothing like the stony dream skin.  _ Yes, hello? I would like to return this normality compass. It seems to be broken.  _ My best friend, who is an angel and sleeps in my bed because he is afraid of sleeping, came wandering into my nightmares last night. And I’m pretty sure I completely fucked up. He couldn't remember anything after talking to Cas about his Eol and could only assume that he had upset him enough either leave or push him into unconsciousness. 

 

Dean grabbed his phone and quickly checked for any messages or calls. There was nothing. He felt sick. He had left messages on Sam’s phone, the emergency phone and the emergency emergency phone. The last contact he had was from yesterday morning, where Sam left him a brief text explaining that he was heading over to check the lead on Kelly. The anxiety that had been building all day and all night roared over him, making it hard to breathe. He counted to ten, concentrating on taking even, slow breaths. Don't lose it. You can’t afford to lose it now. Hands only marginally shaking, Dean glared at the phone, typing as if the phone had personally offended him. 

 

_ No contact from Sam. Be here for 9. _ Pointedly, if a little petty, he did not include a thanks or an X. 

 

Almost immediately his mother texted back, with a simple  _ Okay. _

 

He looked back over his shoulder, realising that Cas hadn’t even stirred. Curious and desperate for any distraction right now, Dean shuffled back towards the angel. Almost immediately the overwhelming sense of panic dimmed. He sighed.  _ What a stupid bastard.  _ Cas had clearly spent the whole night projecting calming feelings like a fucking Valium beacon. No wonder he wasn’t ready to return to the land of the living, poor guy was clearly exhausted. There was no way he should have had the juice to keep that up all night, and was probably why he had been squished up so close.

 

Groaning, he decided that there was no time like the present to get up. He gently hooked his hand under the joint of Cas’ wing and pushed it back towards the angel. He had given up trying to make Cas keep them to himself. The feathery appendages seemed to have a mind of their own, melting across the bed during the night. He had resigned himself to having no personal space in his bed indefinitely. Anyway, it wasn't all bad. They were impossibly soft and warm, doing excellent service as a second blanket. Cas seemed to sleep better like that too. Dean mused that this must be because angels usually mediated dogpile style when in Fall. It was probably comforting to know that he wasn't alone. It reminded him of when Sam was small, and he would twist his hand in the hem of Dean’s shirt. He would fight someone rather than admit it, but if Dean was honest with himself, he slept better with the weirdly reassuring weight of them resting on him.

 

When Cas didn’t rouse immediately he reached over and gave the wing a little shake, careful not to snag any feathers. As annoying as it was to drag the angel, kicking and grumbling out of bed each morning, he was immensely pleased at Cas’ progress. He was still very much in Insomniacs Anonymous, and he definitely didn't like going to sleep, but he also didn't like waking up. Cas groaned and tucked his head under his wing. After a few seconds to gather himself, he pulled it down slightly.

 

“Sam?” he rumbled thickly, one eye peeking out from under the feathers. 

 

Dean coughed and shook his head. He sat on the edge of the bed staring down at his phone as if he could will it to ring. Something soft brushed at his cheek. Cas had extended his wing and curled the small silver winglet around Dean’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Without looking, Dean raised his hand to pat the metallic feathers affectionately. He stood with an unnerving chorus of creaks and pops. Slipping his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants, he padded out of the room without another word. Cas watched him sadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enochian: Eol - I made you. Make / Made.
> 
>  
> 
> Add me on any platform, I do a lot of waiting around for lab work so I'm always available for some banter.
> 
> Discord @Quailpower#2270
> 
>  
> 
> Quailpower on Tumblr 
> 
>  
> 
> susurruswant@gmail.com


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait, I did promise an update lasted week but decided since it had been so long I could make it more of a Chapter and a half. 
> 
> This chapter is unbeta-ed RN because I'm a fucking liability when Lexininja and other responsible adults leave me unsupervised.
> 
> Enochian translation at the end.

 

Dean opened the door and let Mary in without a word or second glance. He stalked off towards to command room, clearly expecting her to follow. Charlie had set up camp in the command room, hoping the bright lights and slight chill would help keep her awake. She was slumped in her chair, watching the three laptop screens blankly. She managed a small wave to Mary, who nodded in return. Dean was already shouldering his bag that had been left at the foot of the stairs.

“So, do we have any news?”

“No. Nothing. And in this case, I think it’s safe to say no news is definitely not good news.” He flicked his head at the pile of computers, “Charlie’s got alerts set up for everything, Police, hospitals, traffic cams; she’ll show you what to do, she’s a good teacher.” There was a small look of panic on his mother’s face but she quickly disguised it with a smile.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine. Where’s Castiel?” As if on cue, a shuffling step could be heard echoing down the hall, accompanied by a low, swishing sound. Castiel stumbled into view, bouncing off the doorframe slightly. He was completely bedraggled, hair sticking up at all angles, his shirt was twisted and exposed half of his collarbone and the navy joggers hanging low on his hips. His wings, usually rising high above him, were barley level with his shoulders and dragging heavily behind him. The collision with the doorframe jerked his hand away from where it had been rubbing at his eyes, and he saw Mary for the first time. It was a slightly more delayed reaction to when he had first seen Charlie, it took a second or two for his sleepy mind to register that there was in fact a new person present. This was followed by the familiar screech of feathers as they sharpened and flared outwards. Thankfully, being in the corridor prevented him from extending them fully and sending Mary crashing to the floor. Instead, he managed to leave a series of deep gouges in the wood, tiles and plaster.

“Dammit, Cas.” Dean sighed, dropping his bag and striding over. “You ok?”

“Mhm, what? Oh, yes. ‘M fine. Just a wall,” he yawned. Stroking the plaster absently with his hand as if he could brush the cracks off. “S-Sorry. Just tired. I didn’t realise Mary was here. I’ll fix it later.” He said softly, although Dean didn't seem concerned with the damage at all. He covered his mouth to hide another yawn and waved lamely over Dean’s shoulder. Across the room Charlie caught the yawn and groaned.

“Hello, Mary,”

“Hello, Castiel,” her greeting was warm and genuine, but she eyed his wings nervously. Several of the feathers were still speared into the old woodwork. This was the kind of reaction that Cas had been expecting when considering revealing his wings. Mild though it was, he could taste the instinctive revulsion, fear and mistrust. The positive reactions from Sam, Dean and Charlie, had left him confused but secretly pleased. The abrupt return to 'reality' as he understood it, hit him like freight train. Of course Mary wouldn't accept him like this. It was usually easy for her to pretend he was a human, to adopt him as one of her own. How monstrous it must be to realise there was a cuckoo in her nest. The self loathing and guilt must have become apparent on his features because Dean grabbed his shoulder, hard. He gave the angel a little shake that made his feathers ring like bells, and tried to line himself up with Cas gaze.

The elder Winchester, despite being well rested, looked exhausted. It was the deep, emotional exhaustion that seemed to deepen the lines of his face. At this distance, Castiel could feel his racing, churning thoughts and impulses, though he couldn't read them. He knew that Dean wanted nothing more than the sprint out the door and find Sam, and yet here he was. Holding onto the angel like an anchor. He needed to know that Cas was going to be ok, for him to leave.

He reached up and cupped Dean's hand on his shoulder, closing his eyes. Slowly, and with exaggerated care he folded his wings, ignoring the soft shower of plaster that followed. After a second the feathers shivered and relaxed. The hand on Cas' shoulder squeezed tightly then pulled away. With his back to the others Dean mouthed, ‘well done, buddy’ As his hand pulled away, he stopped to rub his knuckles against the long edge of Cas' folded wing, ruffling the feathers affectionately. He dropped his eyes, cleared his throat and returned to his earlier position at the door.

“You look exactly how I feel,” Charlie groaned from the table, as usual, completely indifferent to the tension in the room. Cas raised a brow questioningly, “Like reheated garbage.” she laughed. The angel snorted, shuffling over to stand behind her.

“Thanks,” he rumbled.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Something like that.” He drummed his fingers along the back of her chair, endeavouring to try and understand what was going on, on her three monitors.

“Well, I’m gonna grab some breakfast burritos out the freezer, give Mrs Winchester the 411, then hit the hay. Wanna join me?” They both watched Dean out of the corner of their eye, expecting him to jump in and vehemently defend his cookware but he seemed beyond caring, fiddling with something on his bag. He left without even glancing at Mary. Seeing the hurt look on her face, Cas held up a conciliatory hand; letting her know that Dean was coming around, but it would take time. And now certainly wasn't the time to push for forgiveness. He tried his best to arrange his tired face into something like confident assurance and sympathy. It must have worked because she gave him one of her rare, fragile smiles. She was very much like her son, always seeking to look happy and contented, but the smile never reached her eyes. The shy vulnerability of someone who has been hurt too many times to give their emotions freely and without care.

“Why don't I go and get your breakfast sorted, then you two can stay there and keep and eye on the . . . thingies.”

“Uh, sure thing, Mrs Winchester.”

“Mary, please. I'll be right back.”

“Am I being weird?” Charlie whispered as soon as Mary left the room. Cas shook his head, nobiliy, but this didn't seem to reassure her. She spent a few minutes chattering idly about the automatic searches she had set up and the alerts, not caring that for all his benevolent interest, Castiel was completely clueless. She excitedly began to describe how she had also set up the alerts to email one of the burner phones, and leaned across the table to grab it.

“Aaah, nope. No. I'm gonna stay right here. Urgh. Could you grab that for me?” She groaned, wincing and hunching over in the chair a little. The look of intense concern on Cas' face made it difficult not to laugh, making her clutch at her stomach and groan again. Dutifully he handed over the phone.

“It's just shark week.” she managed, finally, with a dismissive wave of her hand. He blinked at her, head cocked in its signature fashion. “Uhhh you know . . . menstruation?” She asked, wondering if she really was going to have  _ the talk _ with an angel.

“Oh!” He barked a laugh suddenly, teeth flashing. “I've never heard it called that before!” His face froze in a passive, but concerned smile. The odd rigid posture was one that Charlie recognised as the angel flipping through his mental filing cabinet.

“Can I get you some Tylenol or?” he asked hesitantly, smoothing his hands on the table.

“No, no, I'm good. Need to wait a few more hours before I can take any more. And my damn heat pad is busted thanks to Dean's stupid nuclear strength microwave.” He watched her with a slightly strained expression, feathers rustling restlessly. 

“Here, let me see if I can help,” he said softly.

“Dude, no, take a pew, you're dead on your feet.” she flapped her hands  at him, but any further complaints were disregarded as Cas shuffled out of his seat with minimal groaning. He hooked a hand under her shoulder and another under her knees; lifting her completely out of her seat effortlessly. Or it would have seemed effortless, had he not wheezed and groaned loudly over her objections.

“Oh thanks man, I totally feel great about that multipack of chips I pounded through last night,” she grumbled.

“That had everything to do with my sleeping in an awkward position, and nothing to do with your sprightly size, I assure you.” He declared, faithfully; bouncing her a little to demonstrate how light she was, much to her displeasure. He lowered himself into her seat with Charlie now perched on his knee. Following a few seconds of paranoid adjusting to make sure she wouldn't fall, be curled both wings carefully around her waist, with the bulk of them piled into her lap and spilling across her legs. She gasped.

“Oh man, I thought you could only suck up the heat!” She clapped her hands over the smooth black feathers, laughing as they began to exude warmth. “I hope you don't need to do anything today because I am not moving,” she said with a self-satisfied groan; now running her hands through the warm feathers in her lap. Impossibly pleased with himself, Castiel let his head rest against her shoulder, eyes closing sleepily of their own accord.

“So, like, have you ever been in a lady vessel or are you strictly into boys?” Charlie cajoled, bumping his arm playfully and wiggling her eyebrows in his direction. 

“I have worn both women and men, and one indeterminate individual which was interesting, to say the least.” Cas mumbled into her hoodie, stifling a yawn. He lifted his head up a little, brushing at her curls and letting them spring and bounce. “Although I do prefer wearing a male shape, if only for convenience. No offense.” he droned. 

“Ha! Hey no judgement, here.” 

“So, what happens with this whole business if you're rocking some Y chromosomes?” She tussled the now very fluffy feathers across her abdomen playfully.

“I just turn the whole thing off,” Castiel rumbled sleepily, rubbing his face against her shoulder. Charlie whistled.

“Wow, that right there is the dream.” she said with obvious envy. He chuckled. From the kitchen the invasively loud beeping of Dean's accursed microwave could be heard. Charlie busied herself with some incomprehensible task on the computer, flicking through screens with nauseating speed.

“So, what do you mean by convenient?” she queried, clicking in rapid succession. Cas stifled a groan. The more tired Charlie got, the more peppy and distractible she seemed to get. A sort of paradoxical energy that he noticed in Dean sometimes, too. As tired as he was, he couldn't make himself rebuff her painfully innocent curiosity. He leaned back in the chair, lifting his head from her shoulder. The bright lights made his eyes water and he blinked furtively.

“Well, equality tends to come and go, more often than not, wearing a male shape means you have more freedom to come and go as you please.” he intoned,dully. He yawned  into his hand, sniggering when she caught it and swore under her breath. Desperately himself awake, he started gently braiding her hair.

“Yeah, I suppose so. But you're an angel, juiced up and on a holy mission. I can't imagine you had to play by the rules. You could come and go wherever you wanted.” She speculated, again with the same pointed but indirect questions he was used to fielding from the elder Winchester. Castiel yawned again. 

“Oh, sorry, Cas. Am I being annoying?” She said with some concern, watching his expression carefully in the reflection of her screens.

“No, no, it's fine. I'm just-” the third yawn struck with a loud cracking if his jaw, “Tired. But yes, you're right. I only had to be careful when I didn't want to be noticed. To be honest the main inconvenience was the clothing.”

“No way, really? Clothing?” Charlie laughed incredulously, shaking her head and causing the angel to abandon his braiding as her hair bounced and swayed.

“Yes. Female clothing can be ridiculously complicated. Take the 16 th Century, for example. So many layers to tie and pin together. And the undergarments,” He made a little noise of disgust, “It feels restrictive wearing a vessel in the first place; to then squash that vessel in layers of bone and canvas corsetry? Unpleasant.” 

“Couldn't you have just not worn one?” Charlie had turned in his lap, so she was now partially facing him, one arm resting on his shoulder. She was in equal parts amused and intrigued. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mary padding  silently into the room, tray stacked with cups and plates. 

“Unfortunately they were a necessity. Or so Anna inforned me. She was my commander then.” he said, stoically. As if it was a point of contention that still bothered him. 

“Well, I wouldn't have guessed you were an expert on period undergarments. Looks like Dean may have a contender for his position as Handmaiden at the next LARP event.” clearly confused Cas was nonetheless too tired to enquire further, despite not knowing what LARPing was or why Dean in particular was a handmaid.

“As long as I don't have to wear a corset, I would gladly be your Handmaiden, Charlie,” he added, with grave sincerity, making Charlie burst into another fit of giggled. She punched playfully at his shoulder and he grinned toothily. 

“Oh come on, you wouldn't wear a corset for me, Cas? I thought we were besties.” he frowned.

“No.” Charlie stuck out her bottom lip, pantomiming aggrieved sadness. He sighed. “I could take it under consideration I suppose.” he said, barely managing to sound put-upon and stop the smile pinching at the corner of his mouth. A soft thunk made them both jump. The breakfast tray had arrived.

“I forgot to ask how many you wanted so I just warmed up half a dozen, and made a fresh pot of decaf.” Mary said hesitantly. Eyes flicking from Cas to Charlie. Charlie clamped her hand over her mouth, stifling her laughter. From the slightly distressed look on Mary’s face it looked as if she had overheard some of their conversation, and seemed both concerned and disturbed by the corset revelation. For his part, Castiel seemed completely oblivious to Mary's confusion. He smiled warmly at her, quietly thanked her and invited her to take his previously vacated seat.

Mary slid the two plates and pot of coffee across the table, keeping some distance between herself and the angel's wings. She took her seat without another word. Charlie, after inhaling one burrito in record time, started to explain the system she had devised for the computers. Being tired and leagues above Mary's competency level on the computer, she ended up going off on several tangents to explain concepts or doubling back on herself to cover something she had missed earlier. Mary, shuffled her chair a little closer and steepled her hands on the table, alternately looking between the monitors and Charlie's face. Occasionally she would ask a question, but otherwise she would simply nod along with Charlie's explanations, silently.

Now that Charlie's attention had turned away from him, Cas was left with nothing to help him keep awake. He was utterly exhausted from exerting a calming presence over  Dean for the whole night, and having to concentrate on maintaining a safe temperature in his feathers now certainly wasn't helping matters. The excitable chatter of Charlie's voice faded into the background noise. He struggled to eat a few mouthfuls of his breakfast, appetite fading with each passing second. After a few minutes of half hearted attempts, he returned the barely eaten wrap to his plate and settled back into his position leaning on Charlie's shoulder. Quickly falling into the state of sleeping wakefulness, of the chronically exhausted.

“Hey, hey, come on. Eat your food.” Charlie cooed, hooking her arm round awkwardly to reach him and patting at his face. “And don't think you can fool me with that speech about animal cruelty in the food production industry. I'm not Dean, I know you do that when you don't want to eat something. Although I'm pretty sure he doesn't believe you either, he's just a pushover.” Her voice was pitched with false severity, aiming to goad him into eating out of spite. One of his primary motivators.

“Those are bean burritos.” he grumbled, sleepily.

“Point stands, eat your damn food.” She admonished, despite her earlier assertion, pulling off the grumpy parent tone with panache. With an exaggerated groan he sat up, rubbing his eyes. He fiddled with the wrap for a little then under Charlie's judgemental eye, before surrendering and making a point of eating slowly and resentfully. Refusing to engage in this new level of pettiness, she fixed him with a saccharine sweet smile and ruffled his feathers affectionately while sipping her coffee, her own plate empty. Mary coughed.

“So how long have you two . . . ?” she asked innocently, her own cup poised in front of her mouth.

“What?” Castil blinked, blankly.

“Eurgh! Gross! NO!” Charlie dropped the burrito she had been liberating from Cas’ plate, looking aghast. “We're not. Ew. No way. I mean, no offense Cas, you're a peach. But I'm like, super gay.” She rambled. Holding up her hands for emphasis. Castiel made a quiet  _ oooh _ sound, his sleepy mind finally catching up to the conversation.

“I hardly think the ew was necessary.” he commented, seemingly to himself. Charlie laughed, a little higher pitched than usual and swatted at his arm.

“You know what I mean,” she sighed. He hummed in confirmation, the corners of his mouth twitching. She chuckled, hissing something that sounded like;  _ you little shit _ , and punched him in the thigh. 

Mary, a blush quickly overtaking her, stumbled over apology after apology. Charlie assured her that there was no issue, it was a completely understandable assumption; with Cas echoing agreement tiredly. She delivered a heavily abridged explanation of Castiel's condition, sensing that he was still nervous about how exposed their newly acquired knowledge of angelic lore made him. She glossed over the sleeping arrangements, heavily implying that Cas simply needed company and was not exclusively bunking with Dean in the night. And for good measure, doubled  down on the assertion that she was as gay as gay could be. Still Mary escaped to refill her coffee, despite a full carafe being on the table, returning only when the two of them were getting ready to go to bed.

  
  
  


Dean’s phone beeped. He knew it wasn’t an update about Sam, as Charlie and Mom had promised to call if they heard anything. It was a picture message of Charlie and Cas, curled up on the bed. They hadn’t even made it under the covers and had tangled together like sleepy puppies. A smile teased at the corners of his mouth. Without thinking he replied,  _ Cute picture. _ But when Mary responded, asking about the drive so far, he couldn’t bring himself to reply. Leaving the message to stare at him accusingly from his inbox.

  
  
  


Dean stared at the map for the hundredth time in less than an hour. He had started to develop a painful crick in his neck from stopping to look at the device balanced on his knee. Leading him to clasp the base of phone awkwardly in his hand while holding the wheel. The little red pin Charlie had tapped in - of Sam’s last known location - had been creeping closer with each passing mile, and with it the unnatural calmness overtook him. When he left he had been so anxious he had struggled to sit still and his knuckles had turned bright white. Although, it had not extended all the way to his stomach, the hotdog he had purchased at a Gas n Sip while fuelling up had been abandoned after one bite. 

The loud  _ ding  _ and computerised voice of the navigation app announcing  _ in 50 meters you will arrive at your destination, _ made him swear and punch the breaks. Deciding to use the inadvertent slowing to his advantage he took one last look at the topography before cancelling out of the app and slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He considered phoning home but realised Charlie, Mom or Cas was likely watching his location in real time, anyway. He rolls forward at a creeping pace, eyeing every inch of the unassuming dirt road with suspicion. There was no sign of Sam. The road was baked hard and he couldn't tell if another vehicle and passed down it recently, though it did throw up a lot of dust. The scrubland had given away to a thick walls of vegetation and trees miles back. Abruptly the road came to and end with a large rusted cattle gate. It was secured with a chain and obviously hadn't been opened in  years. The hinges had dropped and the whole thing was sunk into the soil; there was even a small sapling trying it's luck in front of it. 

There was no way Sam came this way. Even if he had abandoned the truck and climbed over the gate, the soil was loamy and thick with wild grasses and aspiring shrubs, almost perfect conditions to leave a trail, even weeks later. Dean took a deep, but shaky breath. He slammed his hands into the steering wheel.

“Fuck!” He scrubbed at his beard, twisting and turning in his seat to look around. “Alright, second sweep. Must have missed something.” He mumbled to himself, without conviction. The time consuming manoeuvre to do a 180 in Baby, who had a turning circle equivalent to land barge - not that Dean would ever admit that - had his snarling, sweating and considering outright ramming the nearest bush. Now pointing back the way he had came, Dean took a moment to calm himself, knowing he was more likely to miss something if he wasn't giving the surroundings his full attention. He caught his reflection in the rearview mirror, noting that he looked surprisingly well rested. His hair was a mess, he hadn't shaved and his collar was half popped but all things considered, he looked - ok?  _ A miracle, really,  _ he thought; catching himself with a snort. He reached into his pocket, running his thumbnail along the small white feather. He had worried, after stepping out of the bunker, whether Cas would lose his mind over the missing feather. He had stopped the obsessive daily counting since Charlie had arrived but still seemed to retain a mental catalogue. 

He pulled the car back down the road, creeping along so slowly that Baby didn't bounce out of first gear. About half way along the track, he noticed what appeared to be a suspiciously angular tree trunk. After a moment's inspection, he dropped the car into park and slipped out. Being stealthy wasn't an option when Baby was around. 

The 'tree trunk’ that had caught his eye turned out to be the remains of an old gatepost, complete with rusted latch. Next to it, completely hidden from the track was an even thinner, more overgrown road.Saplings had been cut and pulled from the surrounding area to hide the entrance, the tall grass and weeds hiding their hewn trunks. With a mental high five, Dean grabbed the branches and hurled them to one side. He padded forward, hand hooked behind his back, ready to draw his gun. The track was narrow and uneven, but relatively short - he could see the end, probably less than a quarter mile. If he needed to make a quick exit, he could probably pull baby down there without too much trouble. Something about the whole area made him feel uneasy, and tramping down there on foot was definitely not his preferred choice, even if it did cost Baby some scuffed paint. 

He climbed back into the car, stopping for a second to bang any mud off his shoes against the kick-plate, and surreptitiously look around for any potential watchers. By the time he was approaching the end of the hidden track his anxiety level had reached its peak. Dean was by virtue of his profession, an experienced outdoorsman, and something about this forest was triggering his internal alarm system. So much so, that the sight of the hideous brown and tan truck in the distance almost made him do something reckless. Leaving the engine running, he threw open the door but stopped himself with one leg out. There were two decrepit farm outbuildings at the edge of the clearing, that could easily be hiding any number of people. There could even be someone lurking in the treeline. Cursing under his breath, he slammed the door closed and began the laborious process of turning Baby around in a limited space. With the car orienteered for a quick getaway, he leaned back and popped open the rear door to cover him as he climbed out. Pistol raised he began to meticulously scope out the clearing, moving closer to the truck and outbuildings. 

As he reached Castiel's newest vehicular disaster, he realised that the car likely wouldn't be coming home of its own volition. Though faint, he easily recognised the cocktail of sweet smelling of engine coolant, miscellaneous burning fluids and hot oil that usually accompanied a busted radiator. He carefully tried the door, it was unlocked. All Sam's things seemed to be in order. There was no gore or signs of a struggle, at least. Dean flicked his eyes over the vehicle, flinching a dropping to a crouch when he saw a boot reflected in the passenger wing mirror. Peeking under the car he realised the boot was attached to someone sat down on the floor, leaning against the rear wheel of the truck. Even obscured by thick grasses and the shadows under the vehicle, there was no mistaking that shape.

“Sammy!” He hissed, scrambling round the car in a half crouch. “No, no, no, Sammy, no!” Lunging forward, he slammed into the dirt beside his brother, gracelessly. Sam's eyes were closed, a good portion of his face was obscured with dried blood. Now that he was close enough, Dean could hear the shallow, irregular breaths whistling out from Sam's cracked lips. His first instinct had been to shake Sam, but he froze, hands outstretched. There was a lot of blood. Obviously some kind of head trauma. And number one rule of head trauma is do not move them.  _ Fuck _ . How long would it take for an ambulance to get to the middle of butt-fuck nowhere? That is if they could even find them.  _ Double fuck _ .

He stumbled towards the cab of the truck on slightly numbed legs. Rifling through the first aid kit, launching supplies everywhere without a care, he retrieved the smelling salts. Snapping them under Sam's nose had no effect. Dean scowled, perhaps they were  duds? He snapped another one under his own nose and spent the next few moments coughing and sputtering, eyes watering. Definitely not duds. He reached out, pressing his fingers to Sam's throat gingerly, his other hand hovering over his head, ready to stop any shift in position. It took a while to find but the pulse was there; it was racing, but it was there. He spent the next few minutes pinching at Sam's wrist. No matter how he tried he couldn't feel a pulse there. That meant his blood pressure was low, dangerously low. A thought that sounded suspiciously like John echoed in his mind:  _ see the way he's breathing, son? The way his skins a little blueish, and his pulse is fast but weak? He's a goner.  _

  
  
  


Dean had pulled into the ER ambulance bay as quickly as he dared. Painfully aware that every tiny jostle and bump on the journey there could leave Sam paralyzed, or worse. His hands were white and locked into a claw position from holding the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him sane. He was hollering hoarsely for assistance, barely aware of what he was saying other than “I need some help over here!” Faceless individuals in scrubs rushed over. They chattered and crowded around him. Dean swore, instinctively pulling back to swing at a large individual who seemed to want to haul him out of the way. He managed to stop himself, stuttering an apology, but the large man didn't seem to care. He was carefully lifting Sam out of the car and placing him on a trolley. One of the nurses, a kindly looking woman, rubbed Dean's arm soothingly; praising his DIY attempt at a spinal board. He shook her off, stomping after the parade of people that had taken Sam. He was just about to follow them through the wide green theatre doors when a severe looking blonde woman with a clipboard and white coat stepped into his path. He scowled, attempting to sidestep around her but was blocked again.

“I'm afraid you need to wait out here,” She said, with the voice of someone who was clearly used to absolute authority. 

“What? No! That's my brother I need to go with him!” Dean snapped, he stepped forward, intending to shove the woman out of his way forcefully if he needed to. A large hospital security guard took this opportunity to insert himself between Dean and the doctor. His hands were hooked casually in his belt, shoulders slouched and relaxed; in probably the least aggressive stance the elder Winchester had ever seen; yet his body language clearly conveyed that any shenanigans occuring would not end in Dean’s favour. Thankfully a small fraction of Dean’s mind was operating at a somewhat logical level and seemed to agree that being thrown out of the hospital was not in his best interest. He coughed, stepping back with a look of perfect innocence. 

“We don't have any of his information on file, so some basic medical information would be very helpful,” She said evenly, before cycling through a rapid fire questionnaire of medical questions; everything from allergies to previous injuries. With each question successfully answered she seemed to regard Dean more suspiciously. Not that he was surprised, it happened every time Sam had the misfortune of being hospitalised, rarely were siblings de facto parents like he was. 

“And perhaps you can help by telling us exactly what happened to your brother,” She said stiffly, lifting her pen ready to take notes. 

“I don't know what happened, I found him like this,” Dean snapped. The white coated gatekeeper raised her brows in obvious disbelief. “Look, he went out yesterday to survey some farm. He stopped answering his phone so I drove out to check on him and he was. . .” He waved his arm in Sam's direction.  _ Like that _ . 

“Survey? Like land values and such?” She continued to take notes without looking at him.

“Yeah, I guess? Why the fuck does that even matter?!” He threw up his arms in frustration. “Now you listen here,  _ lady _ . I-”

“It's not uncommon for attackers to bring their victims in for treatment when they realise how serious it might be. I have a responsibility to ensure my patients safety.” She said, coldly. Dean gaped at her, completely at a loss for words. A few guttural syllables escaped him as he desperately tried to form an existential scream into coherent language. All the energy that had been keeping him going seemed to drop out of his stomach. He turned his back on her, dragging his fingers through his hair and tugging on his scalp. He carefully counted to ten, breathing into his cupped hand. Then counted to ten again. When he turned back to face her, she hadn't moved, but she had ceased taking notes at least. 

“Please, just let me go with him. I won't cause any trouble.  _ He's my little brother _ ,” Dean pleaded haltingly, his voice cracked, and desperate. The tears that had been held back by raw panic, stung his eyes. The severe woman lowered her clipboard shield, regarding him much more kindly. She took his elbow gently, steering him towards the seating area.

“I'm sorry, I really am. But we can't allow anyone in the trauma bay. Please, wait here, and someone will be out to see you as soon as anything changes.” 

 

It was Charlie who answered the phone when Dean called. He had sat in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs for god knows how long before remembering he needed to let the others know what had happened. She had taken the news well, quickly putting the phone on speaker and gently probing for more information. Mary had remained almost completely silent. He didn't have the energy to even consider what that meant. Eventually, when all the questions had been exhausted and it became apparent that Dean just needed someone to distract him, she had handed the phone over th Castiel. 

It went surprisingly well for all of thirty minutes. For someone who usually had the phone manner of an awkward social recluse, the angel's small talk was surprisingly effective. It must have been Charlie rubbing off on him. He gave Dean the cliff notes of a few small projects he and Charlie were working on; have Dean a brief update on Claire and her escapades and even tricked Dean into explaining the pros / cons of chain versus belts on a range of engines. Unfortunately it was at this point that a nurse jogged into the waiting room, asking Dean to sign a consent form for some additional diagnostic tests. He signed the form without a second glance, their fraudulent health insurance was the least of his concerns right now. He trailed after her, peppering her with questions. Either she couldn't or wouldn't answer, she edged back to the door, mumbling supplication. A loud, gravelly voice made them both jump.

“Dean, Dean! Leave the nurses alone, let them do their job.” Cas rumbled, not unkindly. Dean's phone, completely forgotten was still clutched in his  hand. The nurse slipped back into the theatre, with an apologetic smile. Dean sighed, bringing the phone back to his ear. 

“We could try and figure out what happened to Sam.” Cas said softly, hoping that Dean would take the bait and spend the next hour feeling like he was doing something proactive, while also sitting down and generally behaving himself in the hospital. Dean made a noncommittal noise. Cas could hear the sound of him scrubbing at his stubble and shuffling in his seat. He waited, patiently, as only an angel could.  

“He was down on this old farm track, someone had tried to hide access from the road. Two old cowsheds, one barely had a roof. There was a busted up tractor and some scrap. Sam parked near the treeline, I found him leaning up against the truck, he was covered in blood-” Dean stated, with bullet point precision. 

“And the wolves?” Cas interrupted, not wanting Dean to recount Sam’s condition again in all its traumatic splendour.

“No sign of them.” he paused, “There was a cardigan in the passenger seat of the truck, but that was it. No bodies.” He looked around surreptitiously at the other occupants of the near silent waiting room. No one appeared to be paying him any attention. Save for a man sobbing silently in the corner, they all had the same blank, fixed stares, focused on the theatre doors. He lowered his voice anyway.

“Were any weapons drawn? Anything unusual?” Cas prompted. 

“Sam had his pistol but it hadn’t been fired, standard silver bullets. Mustn’t have trusted those wolves as much as he let on.” he paused, closing his eyes and turning on his heel to continue his pacing. “And an angel blade had been kicked under the truck.”

“One of ours?” Castiel could almost hear the shrug.

“I don't know, they all look the same to me. I have no idea how you tell them apart . . . I bet you sniff them don't you? You sniff everything, you weirdo.” Dean said with feigned derision, the ghost of smile flashing over his face for the briefest moment. Cas chuckled, but managed to deny Dean's assertion, pretending to sound offended. He had long ago learned to take small victories and pleasures where he could; and hearing Dean almost laugh - despite the circumstances - definitely counted for both. 

“You thinking angels?” 

“It's worth considering.” Cas stated, evenly. He drummed his hands on the table and shuffled his wings. Dean hummed speculatively, the soft  _ pat pat  _ of his pacing measuring the silence. 

“Sam's left hand was cut. It could have been a defensive wound,” Dean murmured, doubtfully.

“Or he could have cut his own palm for a banishing sigil.” 

“I didn't see any sigils, but-” he paused again, glad that Cas seems to be on the same page. And a little relieved that he wouldn't need to explain how the creeping blood could have easily obscured it. Dean rubbed his forehead, annoyed by the sticky, sweaty feeling. It wasn't that the hospital lacked air conditioning; he was due to come down from an adrenaline rush of epic proportions, feeling a little clammy and spacy would be the absolute best outcome he could hope for. 

“Anything else?”  

“No. No, I don't think so. Its . . .”  _ the whole thing is really fuzzy, when I saw Sam I just got tunnel vision. All I could hear was my heart beating. Someone could easily have come up and ambushed me and I wouldn't have seen them- _

“Dean?” He started, almost dropping  his phone. Cas’ voice sounded concerned. The elder Winchester wondered if he had zoned out for longer than he realised. Everything was beginning to feel a little claustrophobic.

“Mmhm?” He padded over to far side of the room.  Leaning against the wall, half in and half out of the waiting room. From here he could see the theatre doors, his own quiet waiting room and the corridor leading to the ER. 

“When was the last time you ate something?”

“This morning, grabbed a hotdog when I fuelled up,” Dean said, with absolute sincerity. 

“And you ate it?” Castiel quipped with some disbelief, knowing all too well, Dean’s clever use of semantics to lie indirectly, with plausible deniability. Dean scoffed, attempting to sound indignated. 

“I ate some of it.” He grumbled, after the angel refused to back down. He scuffed his boot against one of the waiting room chairs and looked around guiltlity. Apparently, this was not the answer Cas wanted, even if it was the one he suspected. Full prepared to return all the of the smothering affection Dean had directed at him over the last few weeks - with interest - he began to wax lyrical, in increasingly sad tones, how Dean needed to take better care of himself. 

At the end of hall was one of the main triage areas for the ER, the large room was filled with people in various degrees of distress, waiting to be seen. Some stayed seated, some paced, some even lay on the floor. It was a blur of activity. He was far enough away that the noise was dimmed somewhat, save for the intrusive announcements over the tannoy. Only half listening to the angel now, he let his eyes rest on the swirl of activity. 

“Allright, mom,” he hissed, hoping at least to slow the angel in his tracks. It did not. With a sigh he resumed his pacing, shuffling around the waiting room, looking for something to distract him until the lecture ended. He could hang up, or fake signal issues; but if he was honest, the drone of Cas’ familiar voice was immensely soothing in a hospital full of bright lights and loud, disconcerting sounds. 

Something had him on edge. It wasn't Sam, or the hospital, or even the adrenaline. Something was  _ wrong _ . And when the little voice in Dean Winchester’s head tells him to 'listen up and look around’ in a distinctive Bobby Singer style hollering, he listens. Because the only reason he is even breathing right now, is thanks to the part of his brain that is always,  _ always _ , in a state of hypervigilance. Maybe it was the childhood trauma, or the adult trauma, or both; but Dean's mind was tuned to check every shadow for potential bogeymen. 

He paused his pacing, yet again, ignoring the irritated looks from the other waiting room inhabitants. He swept his eyes up and down the ER, looking for anything that might seem unusual. Save for the odd darkly humorous injury - he had definitely IDed one, potentially two 'slipped and fell on if in the shower’ patients from the conservative clothing and refusal  to be seated - nothing seemed too unusual.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get something from the vending machine later, no e-numbers, the whole shebang. Promise.” He said, talking over the still ranting Castiel.

“Hey, Cas? What would happen if you ganked an angel near a load of kindling? Could it start a fire?” 

“That depends, why?” He said, trying and failing not to sound annoyed at being interrupted. Dean wondered himself for a while, not quite sure where his subconscious was directing him. He closed his eyes, trying to picture the clearing again.

“There was a big patch of scrub that had been scorched, near Sam. It was still warm, I could feel it as I walked past. The whole place was drier than Ghandi’s sandal - so it could have been a bushfire, but-” he left the question hanging on Cas’ answer.

“In that case, yes. I have seen something similar, once or twice.” the angel added with some reluctance. Direct questions regarding were still a challenge for him; the almost instinctive desire to deflect and avoid was overwhelming. Dean hummed, casting his eye over the waiting room again. He saw the two stuff looking gentleman.

“Well if I’m right, that means I’ve probably got something stuck to my shoe, too. Hang on, I’m just gonna head to the bathroom and check.” he turned on his heel, calmly striding off in the direction of the bathroom. Cas’, completely surprised by this development tried to question him further. 

“Shh” Dean hissed, retrieving a marker pen from his jacket pocket and locking himself in a stall. He quickly sketched a few lines on the back of the door - a soundproofing sigil he had researched when designing his ‘Dean Cave’. There was no visible demonstration of its activation, like most sigils, but he had tested it extensively in the bunker. He signed.

“Alright, we’re safe to talk. I clocked two guys in the waiting room acting suspicious. Ugly suits, standing like tin-men, always in my line of sight and they’re not doctors or patients. Something doesn't feel right about them.” he said quickly. “Angels, right? I think I should banish them.” 

“Dean, wait. If they are angels and you use a banishing sigil now, they’ll know you’re on to them and might escalate. We have the upper hand. Wait them out. At least until we know what’s happening with Sam.” Castiel said with heavy emphasis,  Dean could almost imagine his pleading face and hands raised in supplication. He nodded, then realising Cas couldn't see him, hummed noncommittally.

“And you are in a hospital, they could easily be reapers. The banishing sigil wont work on them.”

“Shit.” Dean blinked, he had never considered that before. “Is there a reaper banishing sigil?” he added, curiosity overpowering his concern for a second.

“In theory, yes.” Castiel mumbled, the shuffling of feathers interrupting the oddly tense silence.

“You make sigils, right? Could you make one?” 

“Yes, but it could take weeks. The angel banishing sigil took me nearly a year to perfect.” Cas’ added morosely, having guessed what adean was going to ask him. To be fair, the elder Winchester was not - as Castiel had assumed - disappointed, he had expected as much after seeing the angel grumble and swear in enochian for hours over the placement of one line in a drawing. He was, however, absolutely shook by the revelation that Cas had apparently invented the banishing sigil. Dean threw up his free hand because of course he was only finding this out now. Before mentally adding the origins of the angel banishing sigil to the list of things that need to be discussed when everyone is safe and no one is trying to end the world. So, never. Essentially. 

“Do you have a coptic cross in the impala?” Cas asked suddenly. 

“What? For a reaper binding spell?” Dean whistled, “That’s not going to make us any friends, Cas.” he added doubtfully. Remembering vividly how much reapers disliked being bound. 

“It will have to do as a last resort. What about an enochian reaper trap?  D you remember what they look like?”

“Not really, last I saw one was what? Ten years ago?” Dean sat down on the toilet lid, rolling his shoulders. 

“I’ll send you a picture now.” Cas said briskly. 

“Right, thanks. I’ll grab some supplies then head back to the waiting room, I guess.” Dean sighed, feeling a second wave of tiredness overtake him. What he wouldn't give for just a few hours peace.

“Hey, Cas?” he picked his lips, nervously; hand hovering over the stall latch. “Can we keep this to ourselves? I don’t want Mom or Charlie worrying over nothing. Maybe I'm just stressed and they are just two regular guys.” he said, with forced casualness. Castiel said nothing. The silence seemed to drag on for an eternity. 

“Of course, Dean.” The angel sighed.

  
  
  


“Sam’s out of the trauma bay, they’ve moved him up to the ICU.” Dean’s voice echoed dully through the phone. They had all been waiting listlessly  around the map table for any update. Mary had swooped in, grabbing the phone after less than one ring. Charlie had jumped, almost falling out of her seat, looking anxiously around. 

“Is he-?” Mary breathed, face pale and drawn. 

“I don't know. They don't know. Or they do and they aren't telling. Said they need to keep him ‘under observation’ before they decide what to do next.” Dean spat. The sheer venom dripping from his words made Charlie instantly feel sorry for whatever medical professional had to deliver this information. There was little background noise now, the faint swishing sound of a respirator pump and miscellaneous beeping was all that could be heard.

“They said he might not wake up.” Dean croaked, voice cracked and barely above a whisper. Quicker than he had ever seen her move, Charlie had leapt from her chair to catch the phone that had fallen from Mary’s limp hand. She launched it without looking, in Cas’ direction, now using both hands to steer the shellshocked Mary into a chair. 

“Cas what’s going on?!” Dean yelled, hearing only a combination of crashes and bangs. 

“It's alright, your mother just needed to sit down. She’s fine.” Cas cooed soothingly, sinking into his own chair with a soft tinkle of ruffled feathers. Charlie was rubbing the older woman’s shoulders gently, despite her quiet protests. There was no much sadness and pain palpable in the room that it almost made Castiel nauseous. He took a deep drink of his cold coffee, hoping to clear his throat. On the end of the phone, Dean had fallen silent. 

“Dean, I need you to find the charts for me. Can you take some pictures of them?” Cas asked gently, his voice was pitched impossibly low to cut through Dean’s panic. 

“I can read them to you,” he offered quickly, voice tinged with desperation; as if speaking to Cas on the phone was the only thing keeping him from losing it right now. 

“Ok,” 

“There are a lot of papers,” Dean murmured over the sound of shuffling pages.

“That’s ok, take your time.” the angel said, warmly; wishing he could offer something more than the comfort of his voice.  Although Cas still held the phone horizontally in his hand, on speaker, he had pulled it closer to his face. Cradling it with both hands, and turning his whole body towards it.

Dean read slowly, occasionally stumbling over the unfamiliar words and abbreviations. He had something of a passion for the medical profession, and perhaps in another life would have become a doctor or nurse. And so reading basic vitals and test results, with some knowledge and deductive reasoning was not as difficult as he expected it to be. Plus the lab results had the normal range, right there on the sheet, so he could - with confidence - say things like; ‘he has really high creatine levels.” 

“So I’ve got one here that says, Adult Neurological Chart? It's mostly numbers and tick boxes so what do you need?” Before the angel could respond, Dean blurted out; “Hey, whats the Glasgow Coma Scale? That sounds important?”

“It's a way of measuring how conscious someone is, and how severe their brain injury is.” Charlie added robotically, from across the table. “My mom was in a coma,” she added quietly, almost to herself. She was sat next to Mary now, holding her hand; whether for her own comfort or for Mary’s she couldn't be sure. 

“Ok, so he scored a 3? Is that good?” Dean asked, hope so evident in his voice that it made Cas wince. He saw Charlie shake her head, confirming what Castiel already thought. He cleared his throat, suddenly speechless.

“It’s not a measure for prognosis; people can have low scores and recover just fine. It's just a measurement.” She pronounced, with absolute certainty from across the table. Cas shot her a thankful smile, letting out the breath he had been holding. The silence from Dean’s end had the angel convinced that he had picked up on the giant, invisible ‘but’ hanging at the end of Charlie’s sentence. 

“Ok, so there's a big list of all the tests issued, full bloods, CT & MRI, EEG…? Looks like theyre repeating them again in a few hours,” he moved on, either unable or unwilling to consider the possibilities implied. Charlie fixed Cas with a worried glance, raising her brows in a silent command to  _ do something.  _

“Is there a copy of the CT in there?” he asked suddenly. Charlie clapped a hand over her eyes, groaning. Mary continued to sit perfectly still, he couldn't tell if she was listening or if she had retreated into herself. 

“Yeah, there’s a few of them in a folder, but I gotta admit have no idea what I’m looking at, Cas.” Dean mumbled, voice muffled as he stuck the phone under his cheek and fought with the manilla envelope. The sound of aggressive paper rustling intensified. 

“Send me a picture, I’ll wait.” Cas assumed that Dean was complying with his request because the shuffling of papers was quickly replaced by low frequency grumbling and some miscellaneous scuffling noises. His phone beeped. Castiel spent the next several minutes silently surveying the pictures Dean had sent, struggling to keep his expression blank. He could feel Charlie’s eyes on the side of his face. 

“Are there any notes with it?” Cas asked, indifferently. He was glad Dean couldn't see his face right now. Even Charlie would be lucky to catch the flaw in his features, but Dean could and would see through him effortlessly; knowing that the angel had an answer, and he didn't like it. He turned the phone for the hundredth time,  zooming awkwardly. Were he a creature that prayed, as opposed to one who was prayed to; he might have asked to be proven wrong. 

“Yes -” Dean flicked a page over and took a sharp, hissing breath. He coughed. “Traumatic class V subarachnoid haemorrhage (Hunt & Hess grade). Evidence of diffuse hypoxic-ischemic damage (grey-white differentiation loss). Recommended DS angiography when stabilized and continued monitoring for reversal sign.” 

Castiel put his head in his hands, unconsciously tugging at the roots like he had seen Dean do. Turning away from the cursed image on his screen, he looked over to silently confer with Charlie, again. He almost asked,  _ how much research did you do when your mother had her accident?  _ But discounted it immediately, it was clear she already knew what the results implied. The redhead was sat rigid in her chair, both hands holding on to the table for dear life. Her beautiful face, always so soft with kindness and affection was unrecognisable in its blankness. A feeling of intense distress and sadness - completely absent for her features - but bubbling under the surface, seeped into his feathers. 

“Cas?” Dean demanded, raising his voice above the susurrous machines.

“Cas, you tell me what all this means right now or I swear to god, i’ll drive all the way back home and beat it out of you. I’ve had doctors dodging me all day, I can’t take it from _ you, _ ” His voice broke. A shower of small clattering sounds attested that a table had likely just been assaulted. 

“Dean, I’m not hiding anything from you. I’m thinking.” Castiel all but whispered, carefully scooping up the phone and letting it sit in his open palms. A soft  _ oh _ escaped the tinny speaker, which was as good as an apology as he needed. The greyscale imagine on the screen burned into his eyes. When he closed them, it was still there. 

“There’s a bleed, a big one, in the centre of his brain. And at some point his brain has been deprived of oxygen. Whether that was because of injury or shock, I don't know. But it looks like the lack of oxygen has caused some tissue death, which they want to monitor. The outlook isn’t promising.” He spoke suddenly, stiffly. Sounding almost like the inflexible, robotic Castiel who he could barely remember. 

“Fuck.” 

“But, he’s stable right? As soon as you’re better - in what, a month or two? - you can fix him? Right? We just have to wait it out.” Dean babbled, desperately. 

“He might not make it that long,” Castiel added, every words feeling like a betrayal. He didn't need to see Dean to know the expression on his face. Nor hear the quiet huffing breaths as he struggled to control his emotions. He had seen it before, too many times. It was unbearable to see any of his family, but especially Dean, endure this promethean torture. Charlie and Mary watched him cautiously, somehow sensing that something was  _ wrong _ here. He shouldn't be surprised really, humans were remarkably perceptive; their ancestors probably being of the kind who ran away from a rapidly retreating shoreline. 

Cas straightened his shoulders; folded his wings with the utmost control and delicacy; he relaxed his features and breathed deeply. The very picture of someone not currently suffering an intense emotional crisis. But in his most sacred space; his  _ Faonts; _ somewhere that existed only inside his true self, he raged. Castiel screamed and roared; uprooting trees, hurling fire and reducing rocks to piles of hissing lava. He vaporized a small forest; and was angry enough when it didn't make him feel any better; that he summoned it back into existence to burn it down again. He clawed at the soil. Digging furiously amidst his destruction - stopping only when he was almost completely submerged under a blanket of ashes and smouldering embers. The black tone of his skin rendering him almost invisible; save for six shining blue eyes and a twitching tail.   

 

He slowly became aware of Dean’s voice, reverberating from the tiny device in his vessels hands. It was apparent that the elder Winchester was not looking for conversation, rather he was cycling through a series of options in rapid fire succession. Often discounting an idea before he had even finished explaining it. Mary, either convinced by Cas’ act or beyond caring at this point, was also throwing out random ideas and options. They talked over one another and interrupted randomly. Neither seemed to be really listening to the other. Charlie seemed to be desperately trying to follow both conversations and enforce some kind of order with little success. She looked exhausted and ready to burst into tears. He dropped his eyes to the table, tracing every line of his freshly tattooed hand.  _ This is your mess, Castiel. Fix it.  _ A voice, sounding disturbingly similar to Naomi taunted him.  _ How will the Winchester’s take it when they figure out you had a plan, but were too much of a coward to use it?  _

Cas sprang to his feet, the screech and clatter of his chair startling everyone to silence. He scooped the phone off the table, holding it close to him despite being on speaker phone.  

“Dean. We’re going to fix this. I’m going to fix this, ok?” He said, breathlessly. Knowing there would be no backing out once he said it out loud. 

“Cas, man you don’t have your mojo-” Dean croaked, at this point, to emotionally spent to even generate a glimmer of hope. 

“I need you to ward the room against angels, set a reaper trap and make some banishing sigils. Get all your’s and Sam’s things and be ready to move. I’ll call you back.” he declared, leaving no room for argument. His hands shook slightly as he handed the phone back to Mary.

“Castiel?” Mary and Charlie chimed almost in unison. He refused to meet their gaze, apparently intensely invested in inspecting the feathers of his left wing. 

“Something stupid, obviously.” He muttered, almost to himself. He paused. “Dean is probably not going to be happy about this, but he rarely is.” He padded over to the tablet where one of his many stacks of notes were balanced, flicking through a few of the more densely populated paged. 

“Woah, woah, woah, lets slow down for a hot minute.” Charlie squaked frantically, skipping round the table and planting both hands on his chest. “Let’s not do anything rash. I want Sam to be ok as much as anyone else but that doesn’t mean we need to lose our heads.”

“I am not being rash. I had plans in place for if something like this happened, before I even came here. I will not let the people I care about be hurt because of me.” He snapped, turning sharply away from her. He locked eyes with Mary across the room, drawing himself up to full height and adopting a stiff shouldered stance. 

“Mary, if you could please go and shut down the warding.” he asked placidly, as if he wasn't asking her to remove their major source of protection. Her gaze was calculating, clinical. He lowered his voice, taking care to enunciate each word. “The additional angel wards I have made will hold. I need to speak to Crowley.” 

Charlie watched her from over Castiel’s shoulder, silently pleading with her to wait. Mary clenched her jaw and strode off down the hall. Strong arms swept her up and pulled her into a hug. A soft kiss on her crown said,  _ I’m sorry.  _

 

“I’m in need of your services, please come to the bunker,”

“Honestly, Castiel, would a little foreplay hurt?” the gruff voice complained from beside him. The shrill ringing of feathers made both Mary and Charlie rub at their jaws. Crowley - the shock almost comical on his face - took a step back.

“You’ve manifested.” he said, redundantly. Quickly recovering himself, he rolled on his heel, playing off his recoil as bored pacing. “Now that was not something I expected to see today. I’m almost interested in whatever your latest scheme is.” He brushed at his coat, taking a moment to sweep his eyes over the angel’s wings, much to Cas’ annoyance.

“Almost.” He repeat, pointedly, gravitating towards the liquor cabinet.

“Sam is hurt.” Cas rasped, sounding tense and uncomfortable.

“And? Forgive me for not being overly concerned, but that sounds like a you problem, not a me problem.” He shrugged off their incredulous glares, as if to say  _ what did you expect? I am a demon. _ Crowley scoffed into his drink, watching them all from the corner of his eye. 

“What’s Moose gotten himself into now?”

“He was attacked, by angels, we think.” Mary ventured, after a moment's hesitation. 

“And?” Crowley flapped his hand in Cas direction, “Can’t you just, lay on those holy hands of yours?” 

“I can’t exactly go to the hospital looking like this,” the angel snapped. His wings flared with a discorded peal, bashing into one of the chairs and almost knocking it over.

“What’s wrong Cas, did Squirrel finally snap and burn all those hideous suits? I'm sure the nurses won't mind you turning up looking like something from the Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue.” Crowley chuckled, casting an eye over the angel's athletic wear. His sweatpants and t-shirt certainly left little to the imagination. Cas sighed, rolling his eyes.

“You know that's not-”

“Or here's an idea. Why not put the damn things back where they came from! What’s the problem has Moose got possession of your shared brain cell this week?” He roarer incredulously, throwing the bottle cap at the angel and pouring himself another drink. 

“I can’t.” he hissed through gritted teeth. “It takes a lot of energy to move them in and out of this plane, Crowley.” Cas snatched the decanter from the demon’s hands and poured himself a drink. Letting his temper get the better of him, he swiped his wing in Crowley’s direction. It left a deep gouge in the countertop. Crowley pretended not to notice. 

“I don't see you manifesting your tail snap of your fingers.” He added, in an undertone. Crowley quirked his brow suspiciously, but nodded. A smile was teasing at the corner of his mouth, clearly he was enjoying this as much as Cas hated it. 

“I need you to take me to Sam’s hospital room, and then bring us back here.” 

“And what’s in it for me, exactly?” He asked, with a smirk, leaning into the angel’s space to retrieve the decanter. Cas refused to engage; standing stock still and staring at a space above the demons shoulder with a bored expression. With a bored sigh, Crowley stepped back. 

“I’ll be in your debt.” he said simply. “I’m prepared to offer you a favour, with no strings attached, as it were.” 

“So you'd do anything?” Crowley weedled, tapping his finger on the glass thoughtfully.

“Yes.” Cas continued to stare at the space above Crowley’s shoulder. Though he could feel the heat of a very incredulous, very angry glare coming from the small red-headed nuclear reactor in the corner. If Dean didn't make him pay for this, then surely Charlie would. 

“Interesting.” Crowley rumbled, letting his eyes drift over to the others. You could positively smell the desperation. And the House always loves desperate players. 

“Alright, it’s a deal. Always handy to have an angel in your pocket, especially an absolute reprobate like yourself, Cas. No offense. And lucky for you I have nothing better to do today.” he said with a laugh, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a scroll. 

“No.” Cas stated, pointing at the scroll. “No contracts, no blood pacts, no  _ touching _ . This is not negotiable.” He glared down at the demon, trying his best not to aggressively flare his wings. He had a feeling that Crowley would have something scathing to say about that. The bird jokes were already going to be insufferable.

“Fine. If you insist. You’ve gotten boring in your old age, you know that?” Crowley grumbled. 

 

“What room are you in? Are you alone?”

“15f, third floor. Yeah, it's just me and Sam.”

“Use one of the banishing sigils.”

“All right.” there was a scuffling sound. “Done, now- FUCK!”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel rumbled. His wings were pressed tightly to his back, but even doing so, their immense bulk and blackness seemed to swallow the small room. He was holding onto Crowley's wrist, but their arms were at full extension; as if the angel wanted to keep as much distance between them as possible. Crowley smiler, fixing Dean with a wink and a sacy wave.

“What the hell??!” Dean wheezed, eyes bouncing from one man to the other.

“Crowley, I need you to wait outside and make sure no one comes in.” Castiel said, without checking to see if the demon was amenable. He drifted over to Sam's bedside, letting a gentle hand rest on his head.

“You do remember I’m the King of Hell and not just some hired muscle?” the demon grumbled. When it became apparent that no one was taking him on he sighed, throwing up his arms. “Fine.” Dean watched the door click closed then lunged forward to the angel's side.

“Cas, man, I know you want to help, but I thought you were out of commission till this was over with.” he whispered, waving a hand in the direction of Cas’ wings.

“That is correct.” Cas rumbled, face painfully tense. “But that doesn’t mean I’m useless,” his voice was flat and hollow. He held up a hand, silencing the automatic denials that seemed to want to pour out of the elder Winchester.

“I might be powerless, but my feathers are not. I should be able to heal Sam sufficiently with them.” He turned back to Sam. Taking a few steadying breaths, be relaxed his feathers. Only for them to snap back to sharpness with a trill. He glared at them. It took another two attempts for Cas’ feathers to remain relaxed. Dean assumed it had something to do with being in close proximity to Crowley.

“Hang on, you said they've got no where near the juice needed for that sort of thing. You said the one you gave to Claire was spelled or something.” Dean hissed, confident that some kind of shenanigans was afoot. He grabbed at the closest wing, giving it a small shake for emphasis. Castiel winced, cursing Dean’s word perfect recall of everything he had ever said. With Sam he could negotiate himself out of a situation like this, by telling careful half truths and mentioning that he must have explained it wrong the first time. Dean was not so easily misdirected, he seemed to understand all too well the rigid, binary way that the angel thought. 

“Correct. . . In fall most feathers contain barely any power, except for the napta.” He watched as Dean's eyes drifted over to the peak of his wings. None of the napta had fallen yet, and none would for a long time, they were among the last ones he would lose. In his tired and emotional state Dean was slightly slower processing the information, so before he could decode Castiel's intention and object, the angel threw himself into action. He grabbed at the silver feathers of his left wing and tugged, hard. A wave of pain seemed to vibrate through every bone in his vessel, overriding every other sensation. It was strong enough that his vision blurred and he lost his balance for a moment. The sensations spilled over into his true shape. In that he couldn't feel pain in the same way a human did. The two pains seemed to be competing, leaving him feeling disoriented and unsteady. He couldn't be entirely certain how many legs he had. 

When normal feeling started to return to his vessel - in his fingertips - he was able to focus on it, blocking out almost everything else. He realised he was leaning heavily on Dean. He could feel the heat of him pressed against his side. As systems continued to come back on line he felt the pressure of an arm hooked under his shoulder; a hand on his chest and finally two concerned green eyes floating in his field of vision. He blinked. Blood splattered sluggishly across his fingers and the silvery feathers clutched in them. He stared at them for a moment, feeling a deep sickness in his stomach that had nothing to do with pain. A voice that was not his own seemed to shiver along the feathers at the base of his head;  _ Can you really even call yourself an angel anymore Castiel? Is there anything you won't do? _

A light touch on his cheek made him jump. A familiar calloused hand cupped his face, soothing the itching, irritable feeling that had washed over every inch of his borrowed skin. 

“Cas?” his voice was quiet, shaken.

“'I'm fine.” the angel shook himself like a dog. “That was not pleasant.” he said, tonelessly. Coughing a little in an attempt to clear the feeling of bile from this throat as he pulled himself away from Dean. The elder Winchester's eyes were frantically scanning over his features; more scared than he cared to admit by the blank mask on Cas’ face. It wasn't the familiar relaxed pose that the angel defaulted to when he wasn't consciously emoting or the ‘offline face’. 

“Dude, you're bleeding, do you need like a bandage or-” he reached out a soothing hand to Cas’ wing, only to have them jerked away from him sharply with a shrill ringing. Dean dropped his hand, trying not to look hurt, and failing miserably. Had he the energy, Castiel would have felt hopelessly guilty and possibly even tried to explain to Dean why he pulled away. But It had taken all of his self control not to shrink his whole body away from the touch and scream. The thought of anyone touching his wings now, even Dean, filled him with an instinctive, primal terror.

“It will stop in a moment.” he grunted through gritted teeth.

He turned to Sam for the first time, surveying him silently. Using his clean hand, he delicately turned over the young Winchester’s right hand, careful not to disturb the catheters and lines. With the palm facing up, he took his freshly tattooed and blood soaked hand and sketched a sigil on Sam’s palm with one finger. 

After a moment's hesitation he placed the feathers gingerly on Sam’s palm, as if loathe to actually let them go. He clasped their hands, bloody fingers twisting tightly around his friends limp ones. The minutes ticked by and nothing happened. Dean began to wonder if Cas had overestimated his abilities and the brief bubble of hope he had felt when he had heard his friends deep, soothing voice murmur that  _ Everything was going to be alright; _ faltered.

Dean rubbed his eyes, convinced they were playing tricks on him. The black lines of Cas’ tattoos seemed to be vibrating? Flickering with specs of light like the refresh rate on an old CRT, slowly growing stronger and brighter as each second passed. Eventually the black was eclipsed entirely by a rippling blue light. Dean's teeth began to ache, the feathers clasped in Sam and Cas’ hands trilling quietly and had begun to glow - slowly burning through the blood that coated them, until finally they were too bright to look at directly. Their shapes left shadows in Dean’s vision as he looked away.

The noise faded and when he turned back, the feathers were nowhere to be found. The glow of Cas’ tattoos was quickly fading back to black. The angel pulled his hand away, trying and failing to hide the tremor that had overtaken it. He leaned heavily against the side of the bed and silently thanked whatever lucky stars had caused Sam to gasp himself at that exact second. Without his brother as a distraction, Dean was sure to throw himself into Castiel’s space, smothering him with comfort and concern that he couldn’t take right now. He was barely holding on, certain he couldn't survive a single touch. He knew that whatever he was feeling was going to get worse before it got better. That was, unfortunately one of  the only certainties of what he had just done. Suffering guaranteed. 

He was sure Dean was talking to Sam, and maybe him too but he couldn't make sense of the words. They seemed jumbled and meaningless; the alien, liner thoughts of humans requiring too much concentration for him to decode.

“Crowley,” he rasped, clearing his throat again. The smug face that reappeared from beyond the door did little to help his nausea. “We need to go.” This did not get the immediate response he so desperately wanted, as Crowley seemed intent on loitering; bantering jovially from what Castiel could tell from his tone. Cas reached out and grabbed Dean’s elbow, hoping he could avoid holding onto Crowley again for the journey. He knew from the way Dean tensed and turned to him sharply, that he could feel the tremors in his hand and the heat from his skin.

“Come on, let's get a move on,” the elder Winchester snapped, not even bothering to roll and eye when Crowley scooped up his hand and laced their fingers together with a salacious grin. He pressed another hand to Sam’s shoulder and in a blink they were returned to the bunker. Cas stumbled as they landed, managing to catch himself between Dean’s arm and the back of a chair. He braced himself heavily against it.

“Been on the sauce, Cas?” Crowley cooed, laughing. Completely ignoring Mary and Charlie who rushed over to a bambi legged Sam. Castiel growled. Actually growled; not an angry grunt from his vessel, but a deep rumbling sound that seemed to reverberate from somewhere in his chest and fill the room. It made everyone pause, with even Crowley looking slightly taken aback.

“You flew sideways on purpose,” He snarled, a faint echo of the rumbling sound underpinning his words. His hands on the back of the chair where white.

“I think it’s time for you to leave.” Mary said to him, coldly. She was crouching next to Sam, who had been safely lowered into a chair. Her features sharp with expression that said;  _ I don't care who started it, I’m ending it. _ The demon grumbled, muttering something about the thankless work he did and how the Winchester’s were  _ so _ boring now. When it became apparent that, again, no one was taking him on he sighed and disappeared with a snap of his fingers. A clinking sound from the drinks cabinet hinted that several bottles may have been levied in 'tax' for their frosty goodbye.

As if all of the tension that had been keeping him upright had suddenly left his body, Cas collapsed into a feathery heap.

“Shit” Dean swore, dropping down heavily beside him and ignoring the painful jolt to his knees. Charlie stumbled towards them from her place next to Sam but Dean waved his hand at her frantically, “Warding! Warding!” and without skipping a beat she jogged off towards the control panel. The whirring sound of the bunker’s warding springing into life followed.

“Dammit Cas!” he scooped up the angel’s face in his hands. His skin was hot, really hot. Sweat was already beginning to bead around his hairline, making the small dark hairs curl into an unruly mess. Under his hands, Castiel usually felt like an immovable object; dense, as if the weight of his divinity saturated every inch of his vessel; yielding to Dean’s lightest touch only because he allowed it. Now, he felt almost human, a pliant, dead weight in his arms. He awkwardly tried to shift the angel into something resembling a recovery position, made difficult by Cas' wings and the memory of how he had reacted to Dean trying to touch his wings in the hospital. 

“Cas!” he cried, not caring that his voice broke. Pinching the pulse in the angels hand filled him with a sense of horrible Déjà Vu. This wasn't what he wanted, it wasn't worth the cost. Had Castiel really thought that he would want to trade him for Sam? had he ever told Cas how much he was valued, how much he was loved? He had no doubt that Castiel would willingly trade his life for Sam, without hesitation. He had promised to keep Cas safe. How could he let him do this?

The angel jerked, eyes rolling and focusing on Dean, taking some of his weight from the hunter’s hands. He mumbled something that sounded like:  _ zir abramg.  _ Blinking a few times he seemed confused that he was not speaking English. Whatever it meant - Charlie, who had been hovering over them - burst out laughing. Which may have devolved into a hysterical sob or two.

“‘I'm fine. Fine. I must have blacked out.” Castiel rasped, flailing his arms a little and batting Dean's hands away. He attempted to pull himself upright and failed miserably. Scowling at his traitorous legs he seemed about to take a second attempt. Dean placed a hand heavily on his shoulder – his whole body ridiculously tense to hide the shaking - and pushed him back onto his haunches. Dean scrubbed at his face with his other hand, hoping no one would notice his roughly brushing the wetness from his eyes. He struggled to swallow around the lump in his throat.

Charlie shuffled up next to Dean, swiping at her own eyes and holding out a jar of holy water tentatively, like a sacrificial offering. Cas accepted it with a small smile, letting his fingers rest against hers for a second. He clasped the jar in both hands before taking a few cautious sips. If nothing else it seemed to take some of the roughness from his voice. The sharp, sour waves of anxiety and fear that he could feel radiating from Dean was overpowering. He coughed again, terrified for a moment that he was going to vomit. He locked eyes with the elder Winchester; in his condition he was unable to push feelings, so he hoped that a look would be enough.

“I-”

“You meant to do that? Really” Charlie snapped, voice a little higher than usual. She turned to Dean, curls bouncing furiously. “That's what he said.  _ I meant to do with that. _ ” She flicked her brows aggressively in Dean's direction, throwing up her hands as it to say:  _ can you believe this guy? _ Castiel coughed.

“I'm fine. I'm not in any danger. Pulling out feathers makes us . . . sick, I suppose is the right word. But it won't  _ damage _ me. Won't kill me.” he said firmly, wincing and rubbing at his temples, “Even if I wish it would.” Dean’s stoic face told him that this was absolutely not a situation where gallows humour would be appreciated. Charlie, uninterested in the silent conversation between the two, reached out to brush at the splayed web of feathers across the floor. Dean blocked her with his arm. He shook his head minutely. Without the benefit of Advanced Winchester Sign Language she would have to wait until Dean could update her on the situation. Without missing a beat, she scooped up the jar - that seemed to be far too heavy for Cas to hold onto in his current state - and clasped his hand, letting her thumb swipe along in soothing little motions.

Cas sighed, he had dropped his gaze but could feel the hunters green eyes burning into him. Thankfully, Dean seemed to have regained control of his emotions, and the angel was able to relax marginally. However, it seemed he had traded in the nauseating sensation for an annoying one. Whether he was doing it consciously or not (Castiel was never 100% sure) Dean was using a wordless prayer to project thoughts towards him. Succinct and rather impossible to ignore, Dean wondered if Cas was telling the truth, if he really was ok . . . An endless chain of questions. They vibrated across the feathers along his back, all the way up to his face. He shook himself all over, his  _ real self _ , like a dog; his vessel remained slumped in an exhaustive heap.

“Dean, I promise you, I’m going to be fine. I’m just going to feel horrible for a little while,” He mumbled, fatigue dripping from every word. His wings twitched, as if he wanted to reach out and brush them against Dean, as he so often did, but couldn't bring himself to do so. He was leaning against the back of the dining chair, prevented from skidding across the floor by the table leg it was jammed against.

“How long?” Dean grunted, suspiciously. Castiel considered this for a moment, then shrugged. Or perhaps he just needed a moment to gather the energy to do so.

“I don't know. I've never done it before. But I have seen other angels do it.” he finished quickly, seeing Dean's mouth open, preparing to snap back. He stared his friend down, one eyebrow raised. It was apparent that this wasn't the usual battle of wills between Dean and the angel. Cas was visibly running on fumes and simply didn't have the stamina for a showdown. In an uncharacteristic display of grace, Dean dropped his eyes and held up his hands.

“Ok. Ok.” he said soothingly. Dean slapped his hands against his thighs anxiously and scrubbed at his face, hoping generate some kind of affirmative action. Panic and fear were now quickly being replaced by guilt and worry. He had completely forgotten about Sam the second Cas had hit the deck. Sam, who had been inches from death less than an hour ago. Sam, who had walked into an ambush alone because he had decided to stay behind; and the whole reason why Cas was going to be suffering for an indefinite period. When he should have been recovering in relative peace and safety.  _ I'll take, how to completely fail the two most important people in your life for $200, Alex. _ He swallowed, hard, hoping to displace the choking feeling in his throat. Mary was crouched next to his chair, talking softly with Sam and stroking his hair. A horrible feeling of jealousy burned in his chest. She might be their mother, but she had absolutely not right to just saunter in here and take his place. It was  _ his _ job to look after Sam, it always had been. And maybe they could have played happy families, but not after she walked away. Whether it was because of the rollercoaster of emotions he had been through, or simply because he had reached his max capacity for negative feelings, the jealousy was quickly evaporated. Pushing Mary away because he had an issue with her wasn't exactly fair was it? A few years ago he wouldn't have thought twice about forbidding a relationship between them, even if it was for Sam's own good. But now? It left a sour aftertaste in his mouth, he wasn't John, afterall. As much as Dean disliked the idea, he couldn't very well deny Sam a relationship with Mary if that was what he wanted.

“Hey, how you holding up?” he called gruffly to his brother. Sam smiled over at him, ducking out from under Mary's hand, much to Dean's pleasure.

“Good, all things considered. Shaky and sore but it looks like I’m not the only one.” he leaned forward in his chair, trying to catch his friends eye “Thanks, Cas. I’m sorry you had to pull out your feathers for me.” he said softly. Cas waved his arm lazily in a gesture that seemed to say in equal parts; _don’t mention it_ and _now let me die in peace_ ; drawing a soft laugh from Sam and Charlie.

“Come on, miracle or not, you look like you could use some rest.” Mary cooed softly, rubbing Sam’s arm. Before Dean could stand, Charlie was on her feet, slapping his shoulder.

“I’ve got it, you stay with Mr Totally-Not-Reckless.” She fluffed Cas’ hair as she passed, keen to show there was no venom in her words. As much as Charlie loved Sam, Dean would bet his last dollar that she only jumped in to save any domestic disputes between Mary and Dean. Either that or they had bonded in their shared inability to cook. The room fell silent as the others footsteps echoed away. Cas closed his eyes, breathing slowly and regularly.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Cas mumbled.

“Come on, man. You always say you feel sick, and I’ve never once seen you actually puke. Let’s get you some more holy water, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

 

“Well, you showed me. I didn’t think you had it in you,” Dean called from the doorway. Charlie shot him a venomous glare. She was squashed up next to Castiel, rubbing the small part of his back under his right wing that she could reach, careful not to touch any of his feathers. The angel retched, again. Dean winced from the doorway. Charlie covered her mouth with her sleeve. Neither of them were particularly vomit compatible, but Charlie had bitten to bullet to sit next to Cas. Although at one point she had gotten up to retch into the sink, narrowly missing throwing up on the back of Castiel's head, when the urge to sympathy vomit got too strong.

“You're doing great buddy,” Dean said, cheerily, drumming his fingers on the doorframe. “You need me to get you anything?” Charlie glowered at him again, stumbling to her feet and rubbing some life into her sleeping legs.

“Yes, actually. Switch places. I'm going to go and find Cas a change of clothes, preferably shorts because he's burning up.” This was said in the absolute tones that Dean referred to as 'she who must be obeyed’.

“Yes, boss!” he snapped a small salute which earned him a not too gentle whack across the ear. He padded over and shuffled into position next to his best friend, crossing his legs with an arthritic groan. Cas who had stopped throwing up for the moment, had lodged himself into a slumped sitting position between the toilet and the wall. His eyes were closed.

“You can wait by the door. I don't mind.” He said, voice scratchy and raw.

“Nah, I'm good.” Dean said, softly. Castiel, for all his stubbornness and strength did not cope well when Ill. At any other time Dean probably would have found the whole thing hilarious, with a side order of sympathy of course. 

“So, on a scale of tomato to salsa how d’ya feel?” he grinned, shooting Cas a conspiratorial smile and patting his shoulder gently.

“Bloody may on the sidewalk.” Cas muttered, resting his head on his forearms. Dean laughed explosively, slapping at his knee, and hissing sympathetically.

“Oh man, your poor son of a bitch.” There was still some laughter in his voice but it had taken on the warm, soft tone that Cas always associated with Dean taking to Sam or even Charlie when they were ill. It wasn't often that the elder Winchester let his guard down and allow himself to be openly affectionate. Castiel had always thought that Dean had a pleasing voice, enjoyed the shape and sensation the unique wavelengths his cadence created. But this gentle murmur was especially pleasant. He feathers lifted, catching and holding onto rare the sound and letting it wash over him. The elder Winchester was telling some convoluted story about the time he and Sam had both gotten flu at the same time.

As he talked Dean reached out, letting his hand creep up past Cas’ shoulder and onto the back of his neck, taking care not accidentally brush against his feathers. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth as he felt the muscles under his hand relax.

“Cas?” Dean paused, wetting his lip. “Look, I know touching is off limits right now. But, I’d feel much better if you could show me your wing. There was a lot of blood earlier.” he said quietly, almost whispering. There was none of the usual bolster and bravado, the expectation to be obeyed. Castiel swallowed, visibly steeling himself before nodding once. Dean smiled gratefully, giving an extra firm squeeze of the angel’s shoulder as he returned his hands to his lap, in as neutral and non threatening position as he could manage. With an almost painful slowness he extended the shivering arch of his wing into the hunter’s line of sight.

The silvery feathers were in a sorry state. The entire winglet was gummed with blood, the soft vanes stuck in clumps. Some of the feathers were so matted together that it seemed that Cas couldn't extend his winglet smoothly, it jerked and twitched instead of the usual smooth sweep. Dean cringed, clasping his hands tightly together to resist the urge to touch. He dropped his eyes to Cas’ own hands which were shaking; he had been breaking out in random fits of shivering for the last half hour.

“Are you going to be able to clean them?” The angel shrugged, eyes downcast.

“We need to get that blood off, buddy.” the silence hung heavily after his words, but Castiel did not object.

“Do you want me to do it, or should I get Charlie? She’s probably going to be a lot gentler.”

“You.” Castiel croaked. Dean nodded to himself, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs while he formulated a plan. He chewed on his lip. With a soft pat on Cas' shoulder he stretched to his feet and padded out of the door.

“Hey Charlie! Can you get me some warm water and a bucket load of gauze, pretty please? The warmer the better.”

 

“It’s not far off boiling,” she said doubtfully, placing the bowl on the floor next to Dean, as if she didn't trust him to handle it safely. He rolled his eyes.

“That’ll do great. You’re a peach.” Dean said with false cheerfulness, tossing her a wink.

“Oookay then. I’ve left you some clothes and some extra fluffy towels in the shower room Cas. You head on over when you feel up to it.” She said, turning her attention fully to the sickly angel. She stepped carefully around his wing and crouched next to him. As much as she wanted to believe him, Charlie wasn't so sure that Castiel was going to be fine. She could feel the heat radiating off him, and he seemed to be unnaturally pale and flushed at the same time, somehow. She stood stroking his hair for a moment, before dropping to kiss his forehead.

“You shout if you need anything, ok?” she whispered, sneaking a furtive glance at Nurse Winchester and winking. Giving Cas the option to issue an intervention for Dean should his tired, frantic smothering reach concerning levels.

“Thank you,  _ Obza,” _ Castiel mumbled weakly, giving her a wan smile. She beamed down at him, pressing another kiss, this time to his crown. Dean - despite Charlie's lack of faith - had not descended completely into smothering mode; and he made a mental note to either look up the word in Cas’ handwritten enochian dictionary later, or more likely, ask Charlie to explain it when he couldn't figure it out.

As her footsteps faded away, Dean shuffled down to sit next to his best friend. He spent a few moments carefully arranging the bowl of water and gauze before turning his gaze to Castiel. Without speaking he raised his hand, palm up, and waited. Inviting the angel to reach his wing over when he was ready. After a few false starts, Cas extended the arch of his wing, letting the peak rest heavily against his palm. Cas took a steadying breath and fanned out his damaged winglet. Dean could feel the feathers twitching and shivering against his hand. With an encouraging smile and some soft words of praise, he reached out slowly with his other hand. Almost immediately the silver feathers jerked away from him. Castiel swore under his breath, surprising the elder Winchester more than his reaction. His pale face was a turbulent mixture of frustration and sadness.

“I'm sorry Dean. It's not you. It's a reflex, I-” he protested, weakly, unable to meet the hunter's eyes.

“Shhhhh, hey, I know, Cas. Don't worry about it. You try poking me in the eye and watch me try not to blink. It's alright.” he affirmed, putting careful emphasis on his words. It was so typically Castiel behaviour to worry about upsetting Dean while having his injuries tended to. He was impossible.

With almost superhuman patience Dean waited, moving steadily and tenderly when Cas was ready. Several times, he withdrew his hands completely, softly silencing the angel's apologies, only to start again, delicately taking his feathers in hand. With meticulous care he washed every fleck of blood from the black, velvety skin of Cas' wings. He pressed pads of gauze - soaked in the boiling water that made his hands sting – against the damaged flesh, hoping to ease the deep ache that made Cas shiver. He polished every allulae, painstakingly straightening every individual vane so they were smooth and aligned. 

Eventually, some of the shaking stopped and the overpowering panic that had overwhelmed Castiel began to ebb. The urge to flinch and pull away from Dean faded under his determined ministration. Without realising it, he pressed his wing heavily into Dean's hands. A smile teased at the corner of the elder Winchester's mouth; a breath he didn't know he had been holding, escaping finally.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enochian Translations
> 
>  
> 
> FAONTS - literally, the dwelling in the brightness. 
> 
> ZIR ABRAMG - literally, I planned for that (to happen).
> 
> OBZA - literally, a half. Smaller than a whole. Used as a nickname meaning small or little. You will see Cas attach all manner of descriptors to this for Charlie, including my favourite: tiny wrath.
> 
> Enochian has no unit of measure, nor concepts like small or large. We are really going down the rabbit hole now onto subjective langauges and concepts.


End file.
